


Rockabye

by aohatsu, carolion



Category: American Idol RPF
Genre: Friends With Benefits, M/M, Pregnancy
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-12-30
Updated: 2011-12-30
Packaged: 2017-10-28 11:51:11
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 25,456
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/307591
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/aohatsu/pseuds/aohatsu, https://archiveofourown.org/users/carolion/pseuds/carolion
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A baby changes everything. David's not sure he's ready for that.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Rockabye

**Author's Note:**

> Sequel to Carolyn's [Because I Want You](http://thebroca-divide.livejournal.com/4695.html).
> 
> I wrote this in nine days. 25,520 words in nine days. Soak that in.
> 
> Now this _is_ mpreg, and that theme is consistently dealt with throughout the entire fic. I urge you to try it--I was as realistic and open as I could possibly be with it, and I don't think it's that scary to be honest. But if that's not your cup of tea--well, you better stick with just BIWY. And it's imperative that you read BIWY first, or you will be confused, trust me. Even if you have read it--go read it again before you tackle this, alright? Highly recommended.
> 
> I give lots of thanks to Carolyn for letting me use BIWY as backstory for this verse, for encouraging me when I wasn't sure in the beginning, for reading everything I wrote and helping me decide plot elements and scenes, for inspiring me and for agreeing to write scenes of her own, for taking on this huge project with me.
> 
> More special thanks goes to Jay and everyone else who was cheering me on for the tiny things we'd told them--mostly just that we were working on a super secret project of secrecy. I hope you enjoy this!

_sing me a lullaby; it'll be alright_

 

It isn't until he has to get up in the middle of the night to vomit, twice, for three days in a row, that he starts wondering. It's two days later that he sneaks out of the studio under the guise of getting a soda (which he is, really, just, that's not what he really—) and walks into the nearby gas station, picking up the little black box that reads _First Response for Men_. Fifteen dollars later and he's standing in a gas station bathroom, staring at a stick and the two little pink lines— _lines_ , he thinks, and re-reads the directions on the side of the box, just—double checking—but no, the plastic stick in his hand is telling him _Congratulations! You're pregnant!_

He closes his eyes and sinks to the floor, not caring about how dirty it is.

 

It's not like it's unheard of for guys to—it's just really rare, is the thing. David hadn't thought about it, back when Cook—when Cook forgot—he hadn't even thought of the _possibility_. The gene for male carriers isn’t—it’s not rare, exactly, kind of like being left-handed—normal but not what you expect, and even less so because you wouldn’t be able to find out unless you were also—um, having sex with a guy capable of—getting you pregnant. And even then, they always—Cook _always_ uses condoms! It was just the _one time_ that he forgot and—

David goes through the rest of his day the same as ever, ignoring the slight cramp above his hip—he knows what that is now—and the headache he’s had for maybe a _week_ —because he knows why he has that now too. He tries to smile as everyone around him grins and smiles and says, “Album’s coming along great, David!” They're done with the actual recording for _the Other Side of Down_ , have been for two weeks almost, and are just picking what extra songs should go on what international releases, and some of the final artwork to go inside the CD-insert, and he just smiles as the execs ask him questions. He's tired and thinks _maybe that's the baby too_ , but then stops, because he's thinking about—he can't—a _baby_.

It's been nearly two-and-a-half months since he's seen Cook. And the father—the other father—is Cook. It has to be, David doesn't even need to wonder, or think, or calculate. There's nobody else—there's never _been_ anyone else, even if, even if they're not _together_ , or, or—or whatever. He lets his imagination wonder what Cook will say for a few seconds, and then snaps his eyes open and sits up straighter in his chair, Eric looking up at him from across the table, images of CD designs strewn across it haphazardly.

"David?" he says. "You okay?"

 _No_ —and it's barely thirty seconds later that he's puking into a basket Ryan has thrown at him, and Sarah is rubbing his back, saying, "Oh, it's okay, shh."

He desperately wants to believe that it is, but somehow, knows that it isn't, and telling Cook—that's something he _can't_ do. He starts to cry, and hopes that this—crying and puking and the cramps and the stress of everything, the CD, being sick, missing his family, just—everything—won't last for very long. But the real question is how long he can keep anyone from noticing it’s happening in the first place.

And why.

He goes back to the hotel early, after he overhears Sarah arguing on the phone to make it happen. ( _"He's sick and exhausted! We've been working him too hard, just give him a day!"_ ) It’s not like he’s really that important anymore. Sarah and everyone else can decide on the pictures and interview dates and whatever else. He never disagrees with what they decide to do anyway, so. When he gets to the hotel though, he can’t sleep at all, and ends up watching old episodes of _Jimmy Neutron_ on Nickelodeon in-between crying and yelling at his pillow.

 

If he does the math right, and he’s think it’s like, basic elementary math, so he’s pretty sure he’s doing it right—he’s in his third month. He does some research, logging on the internet whenever he can manage to get time alone. He can’t—he doesn’t look at anything about the baby really, his stomach too tied in knots to let him. He skips to the information about what the carrier—the mom or dad—is supposed to be expecting when, um, expecting. He’s supposed to start gaining weight, apparently, in the third month, but he hasn’t yet—not that he can tell, anyway. That’s what he’s scared of the most, beyond the headaches and nausea and frequent bathroom breaks. Really, what’s going to happen when he suddenly starts carrying a basketball around under his shirt? He can’t—he can’t _hide_ that forever, and he’s kind of in the, the public eye, sort of, so he’s going to be found out any day now, what does he _do_? But he can’t—he can’t think about that, if does, he’ll go crazy. There’s more important things right now—the album, for one. He’s worked— Everyone, _everyone_ ’s worked so hard on it, he can’t ruin it just because he forgot to tell Cook to use protection three months ago.

Everything’s incredibly busy right now, but he breaches the topic with Sarah anyway. Not—not that he’s pregnant—he doesn’t know how he’s going to tell her that, or—or anyone, even, he doesn’t want to think about it, he _can’t_ think about it. Which is why he’s decided to make the move—permanent.

He’s been living in-between Murray and L.A. since he was seventeen. He’s nineteen now, has a steady job and paycheck, and he primarily lives in L.A. because of that job, so— Basically that’s what he tells Sarah when he’s asking her to help find him a house. He’s tired—he’s tired of living in hotels for more than half the year and he can’t live with his parents forever, there’s no, there’s no point in that.

He doesn’t really care where he lives. He knows he doesn’t want it to be some huge mansion or whatever, and as long as there’s a fence and trees or bushes or whatever to dodge the paparazzi when they get, um, excitable, he’s happy. Sarah drags him around L.A. to like fifty different places though, and they’re all either huge or open or, er, really weird. Like, there was one with triangular shaped rooms? He doesn’t know how someone could live in a triangle, how would you push things against the wall, or whatever? That’s just weird.

He ends up finding one, finally, that only has two floors and isn’t _that_ big, although the yard is kind of huge, twice the size of the house, easy. But it’s pretty, and has a smallish kind of room right next to the master bedroom, where he can put a nursery for the—baby. The realtor guy who has been running around the city with them all day had suggested turning into a master bath instead, but David shook his head and said, “No, I just want to move in. No, um, construction or anything. It’s kind of perfect the way it is.”

He liked the kitchen—it was big enough that he didn’t think he’d run into anything when he gets up in the middle of the night for a glass of water, something he’s always done. And the bathroom is just down the hall from his room anyway, so that’s good. The living room is really big, and has a fireplace (like, electrical, not with _real_ wood, that wouldn’t be safe for crawling infants, David is pretty sure—) and a window that’s sort of, um, outward, and he can see how a Christmas tree right there would be really nice, so. It takes two hours to sign all the paperwork and then two more for the realtor to get back to them that the owner is more than happy to sell the house to David. (Probably because he’s buying it all at once? His parents used to pay so much interest on bills they had to pay off, so it just seems smarter to get rid of the bill all at once.)

Moving in doesn’t take too long—the house was empty and all the legal stuff goes through really quickly. David isn’t sure if that’s how it usually works or if his management did something to make it go quicker, but either way, he’s glad he has his own house all the sudden. His mom is kind of—she’s a little upset, when he tells her, but he can tell she’s okay with it. He’s nineteen, and—it’s not like he isn’t ready.

His first night all by himself in the house is kind of—weird. It’s just—it’s not a hotel, or his parents’ house, or a friends’ house, it’s _his_. He spends most of the night unpacking, before making the bed and getting under the covers, quickly tweeting _All moved in! Exhausted, haha, goodnight!_

It’s not really a problem that night, maybe because he was so tired? But the pregnancy hormones are driving him a little crazy. It’s like—he’s constantly just—he went through the formative teenage years, okay, so he knows what it’s like to get turned on by anything and everything, but this whole thing is _awful_. He’s pregnant; he shouldn’t be all whatever all the time, hot and achy and constantly pulling at his jeans because he’s pretty sure it must be obvious. So he ends up spending the first twenty minutes of bed every night working himself up, and it’s just—he can’t help it, sometimes, like—like now, when his mind slips back to the night Cook called him out of the blue, and he gets hard just thinking about how Cook had kissed him _everywhere_ what seemed like all at once, and pushed him down, hot and sweaty and _frantic_ , like nothing else mattered but them.

He breathes hard after he comes, and closes his eyes for a long minute before getting out of bed in order to clean himself off.

 

Sarah is smiling when David lets out a long breath after three interviews and a shoot. He’s tired and relieved that they’re over, and then she says, “So, you ready for that live interview at Top 62?”

He _wishes_ he was ready for anything but falling into his bed and sleeping for hours and hours and hours. Of course he goes with her anyway, and when the interviewer asks, “So, you still haven’t had that first kiss—“ he winces and instead of shaking his head like always, he smiles kind of shakily and says, “I think—no, yeah, I have. But um, it wasn’t—it wasn’t a big deal. So can we not—I mean, next question?”

And it wasn’t—it wasn’t a big deal. It was just a—thing, that he and Cook have done since—since _tour_ , and it’s never been anything but that. It’s never been something he talked about or Cook talked about or—that whole dimension of their relationship used to just disappear after it was over. It never felt like lying when he said he hadn’t been kissed, even though Cook _had_ kissed him—kissed him everywhere, on the mouth and down at his neck and running long trails down his chest or arms or anywhere he could reach, practically, Cook really liked to—the point is, it had never felt like lying, because it wasn’t—it wasn’t _real_ , it was something they put in a box and didn’t talk about, didn’t bring into the open.

It’s only now that David doesn’t really have a choice. This thing—it’s a baby. He can’t put it in a box and hide it in his closet until Cook calls him up and says, “ _Come on, I need to see you, I need—_ ”

He can’t pretend it doesn’t matter anymore.

It’s bigger than he thought it was.

 

He’s totally not expecting it when a week after he buys his house—like, starts sleeping there and moving all his stuff in, that is—the doorbell rings and his little, um, video thing that Sarah made him get (“ _Because of stalkers, David! I’m installing the video surveillance, you have no choice._ ”) shows a black and white image of _Cook_ standing outside his house. His car is in the driveway, and David can even see Andrew there, and he thinks Andrew’s carrying like five pizza boxes—he spares a second to think. _How much do they eat?_ —before logic kicks in and he goes to open the door.

“Hey,” Cook says, arm up as if he was about to start knocking on the wood as well, just in case David hadn’t heard the doorbell. He’s grinning, and even though—even though David was totally planning on glaring, and saying, “No way are you having a party at my house, Cook!” (because when he opens the door, he can see Neal and Andy there too, hands in their pockets, and who knows who else is coming, just later) he can’t do anything but stand in his entrance way dumbly, something like butterflies swirling in his stomach.

“Um,” is all he ends up saying before Cook pushes his way through and is wrapping his arms around David tightly, all warmth and hard chest and scratchy chin, pulling away finally to say, grinning, “Can’t really live in a new house until you’ve had a housewarming party, Archie.”

He can’t help but agree.

 

They watch _Ferris Bueller’s Day Off_ , because it’s apparently one of Cook and Andrew’s favorites, and David makes the mistake of admitting he’s never seen it. (That’s after the tour anyway, which Cook insists on having, so they all saw the mess in the kitchen where David was mixing ice cream and honey together and he has no idea why he wanted that but it’s _amazing_ and delicious so he just flushes when everyone laughs. Andy said something about being a secret sugar fan, which he’s not, and besides, he thinks Andy was talking about something more, um, perverted, and David just didn’t get it, because Neal and Cook and Andrew cracked up and nearly died and the popcorn totally would have burned if David hadn’t saved it.) It’s horrible though. Not the movie, David’s sure the movie would be really awesome if he could actually _concentrate_ on it. But no, he can’t do the normal thing and watch the movie, because Cook is too busy being _Cook_ and ruining David’s entire life without even noticing.

Cook is sitting next to him on the couch and Andrew’s on his other side. There’s _totally_ space in-between Cook and Andrew, but Cook has somehow squished himself up next to David anyway, and his leg is pressed against David’s, hot through his jeans. He threw an arm around David a while ago, like fifteen minutes into the movie, and his hand is curled up near David’s neck, and every once in a while will move, twitch, sort of, and brush against his skin, making his entire body shiver and his, um. Well, anyway, it’s really awful and distracting and the room is hot and he’s finding it hard to breathe. His heart is beating really fast, he’s positive Cook can hear it.

He can’t stop thinking about turning, just a little, and pushing his body up—he’d sit on Cook’s lap, one leg on either side, and run a hand through Cook’s hair, and then push down with his entire body and kiss him, make him groan and put his hands on David’s hips, rocking forward and creating friction, amazing and perfect and—

He plants his feet firmly on the floor and scoots forward off his couch, standing up. Cook looks up at him, and Neal says, “Hey, you going to the kitchen? Get me a beer.”

“Not going to the kitchen,” David says, and grabs Cook by the hand, pulling. “Come upstairs with me.”

He’ll be embarrassed later, but right now, he can’t even wait until they’re in his bedroom to push Cook against the wall and kiss him, rough and hard, and get his hands under his shirt, scraping against the soft heat. He just—he needs him, right now, and he doesn’t care if it’s the stupid pregnancy’s fault.

It might be the last time he’ll ever be able to—

He just needs him.

* * *

To say he’s surprised when Archie drags him upstairs during the house warming party would be an understatement. He thought maybe Archie wanted to talk to him about something important away from the other guys, but there was an anxious urgency about him that wasn’t quite – it wasn’t ‘let’s have a talk’ energy, but it was something Cook recognized and, fuck, fuck, seriously? That meant that Archie wanted to – his hands were hot on Cook’s skin and his eyes were dark, blown wide and needy and Cook recognized that look, only he usually saw it when he pushing Archie down and licking a stripe up his cock, trying to get him to squirm.

But Archie rarely initiated their… whatever their thing was, except for the first time, when Archie’s fingers had touched his wrist lightly, and he’d licked his lips nervously, and kissed Cook clumsily, but sweetly. Most of the time since that moment Cook has been the one to tug Archie in and kiss him and slip his hands underneath Archie’s clothes, primarily because since he found out he could do that, he hasn’t been able to stop himself. Not that Cook always _steers_ their sexual encounters because, well, Archie can be pretty vocal sometimes, but he’s not really a ‘pushing up against a wall’ kind of guy. So this? Is kind of a surprise.

 _Archie presses him up against the wall outside of his bedroom and Cook’s head is spinning, his hands coming up to hold Archie against him, surprised and turned on and a little unsure. They’re still – they’re not even in the _bedroom_ and Archie is kissing him like he depends on it, one hand fisted in Cook’s shirt, already working the buttons loose, the other hand under Cook’s shirt and toying with the waist of his jeans. Everyone is still _downstairs_ for Christ’s sake and – okay, really, this shouldn’t be as hot as is it, but Archie being pushy just _does_ things to Cook. _

He pushes Archie back a little bit, panting, but Archie just pulls him away from the wall, dragging him into his bedroom and shutting the door. He barely has a moment to register that his surroundings have changed before the younger man is kissing him again, running his hands through Cook’s hair and making soft, wanting noises into his mouth.

His brain immediately goes from “What? _What?_ ” to “sex with Archie now” which is a pathetically quick switch, and a not-so-surprisingly easy one. He surges against Archie, tugging at his shirt and sliding his hands underneath, stroking the smooth, warm skin of Archie’s back and sides. The sound Archie makes in return makes his heart do something weird, flippy and warm and fast, and it makes him want to scrabble at their clothes until they’re naked and pressed against each other and Cook can kiss every inch of him and lick the sweat from his neck and watch Archie’s face as he squirms and mumbles and begs. But Archie’s faster, and he’s already unbuttoned Cook’s shirt and pushed it off. His hands are _everywhere_ , running up and down Cook’s chest which feels kind of fucking amazing and Cook’s having trouble catching his breath, too busy groaning at the way Archie licks into his mouth and kisses him as dirty as he ever has.

“Arch—“ he says, and the boy pulls back which, what? No, no, back to the kissing and the petting please, but Archie is shoving him, kind of roughly, towards the bed while his hands undo Cook’s jeans. His mouth presses against Cook’s collarbone, and Cook can feel the way his heart is jumping just from those lips mouthing along his skin, tiny wet, open mouthed kisses making his blood hot.

Archie leans away to take off his t-shirt, and Cook can’t help but stare, amazed as always by the expanse of flawless skin that was exposed to him. It’s not like Cook has never seen Archie naked before. And it’s not like he’s only ever had sex with Archie – Cook has had sex with plenty of people. But it’s somehow _different_ , more like, well, special? Every time is like a revelation. It’s always _new_ , and that’s different, and Cook honestly can’t get enough. (There are warning bells going off in the back of his head; this isn’t normal, this isn’t average, and something is definitely _wrong_ , but he ignores all the signs and just – goes with it.)

“Can you – just, um, lay down? On the bed. Please,” Archie asks, only he’s not really asking, he’s _telling_ Cook what to do. His eyes are huge and focused and staring hungrily at Cook, like he’s the main course or something and fuck, yes, it does feel good. He strips out of his jeans and underwear quickly, lowering himself onto the bed and wrapping a hand around his erection, just watching Archie finish undressing. It’s amazing how unselfconscious the boy becomes when they do this, how his blushes and mumbling almost disappear. He’s still the same person, he’s still _Archie_ , but more comfortable and relaxed and confident and Cook loves it, loves the way he acts when they have sex.

Archie’s graceful like this, even though he trips over nothing when he walks around the house, and his movements are deliberate as he steps out of his pants and looks up at Cook. His eyes are bright and his body is _perfect_ , even though Archie moves too quickly for him to really appreciate it. Archie’s already on the bed, already straddling his waist, leaning down to kiss him, his hands bracketing Cook’s face. Cook rests his hands on Archie’s hips, stroking his thumb along the soft skin there. He tries to slow the kiss down, pulling back and pressing chaste, dry kisses to Archie’s chin and to the corners of his mouth, but Archie makes an impatient noise and tilts his head back, licking his way into Cook’s mouth as he grinds down against Cook’s hips.

“Let me, I want –“ Archie says into their kiss and Cook is ready to let him do whatever he wants, his body hot and tingling wherever Archie touches him. He nods and rocks his hips up, shivering at the friction as Archie gasps and tightens his fingers in Cook’s hair. He’s rocking in earnest now, their bodies’ slick with sweat as they slide against each other. Archie buries his face in Cook’s throat, panting in soft breaths as Cook reaches blindly for the bedside table, yanking open the drawer and fumbling for the lube and condoms he assumes will be there. (It’s a new house but – these are essentials. They’ve got to be there.) His fingers are slicked and pressing against Archie’s hole in a blur, and Archie’s whining and leaning back against him, making these amazing gasping sounds, annoyed and yearning. Cook feels something surge inside of him, something he’s felt before, hot and possessive and scary in its overwhelming nature, the way need seems to swamp his body and all he cares about is the way Archie looks at him, eyes huge and awed and begging.

“Cook c’mon, just, please, _in_ now,” he demands, and Cook laughs, watching the way Archie’s thighs tense as he presses the first finger in. He twists his hand and watches the play of emotion on Archie’s tense face, feeling his cock twitch as Archie bites down on his lower lip, his eyelids fluttering as Cook adds another finger. He can remember the first time they did this, how Archie had been scared and nervous and how tight his grip on Cook’s bicep had been during the first fifteen minutes while Cook soothed him and kissed him and waited, patiently, until Archie began to relax. It was stunning to see the transformation, how over the course of two years and thousands of kisses and hours and hours of laying in bed together, learning each other’s bodies, Archie wasn’t shy or nervous anymore, and he didn’t depend on Cook to lead the activities. Now he knows _exactly_ what he wants, and it’s kind of super fucking hot.

Archie pushes down on his hand, and his wrist is going to be sore tomorrow, but he so does not care. He fits a third finger in, his breath catching when Archie starts to seriously rock back and fuck himself on Cook’s fingers, and he has to remind himself to breathe – it’s just so hard when Archie gets like this, wild and desperate and flying apart. His hand, previously splayed on Cook’s chest, giving him leverage as he bounced, grabs at the lube that Cook had discarded beside them, shakily coating his palm and then reaching down to stroke Cook’s dick firmly. The slick glide of Archie’s confidant hand on his cock makes Cook jerk in place, his thighs tense as he tilts his hips up into the strong grip. Fuck but Archie knows him well now, each stroke quick and no-nonsense, his thumb stroking across the head teasingly on each upstroke. Cook pulls his fingers from Archie’s ass, moving to grip Archie’s hips and guide him closer, whining a little in the back of his throat as Archie lifts up, his thighs tense and trembling.

“Wait,” Cook pants, realizing that – that Archie forgot, and that they had to – “wait, wait, Archie,” he fumbles for the side drawer to grab a condom.

“No.” Archie grabs his wrist, still a little slick from lube, “no, just – I need you, please, forget it, c’mon, Cook, I want—“ and Cook would be an idiot to protest, so he lets his head fall back on the bed, and touches Archie reverently as the boy sinks down onto his erection, a soft, low sound spilling from his throat as their bodies meet. Archie’s hands grip his shoulders tightly, his head bowed and eyes closed. Sweat trickles from his temple, and Cook longs to lean up and lick it away, but he’s too busy trying not to move. It’s so warm and tight and fuck, perfect inside of Archie, and it’s hard not to roll them over and shove forward with his hips, to claim and own and fuck him hard, so he’ll remember. That crazy lust to somehow make his mark on Archie rises up in him, and he rolls his hips, making Archie hiss a little and open his eyes.

He looks at Cook, his face tight with pleasure, and doesn’t look away as he rises up, his slim thighs shaking. Cook doesn’t look away either, but he wraps his hands around Archie’s thighs, helping him, supporting him as the boy holds himself up before slowly sinking back down. Now it’s Cook’s turn to hiss, his fingers fanning out on the underside of Archie’s legs until their tips touch the curve of his ass. He slides them up a little and moans when Archie does, as he grinds down in place.

“Archie,” he mumbles, and spreads his legs a little, thrusting up. Archie makes a sound. “What do you want? Tell me, tell me what you want. Tell me what you _need_.” He wants to lean up, but Archie’s hands on his shoulders hold him down, and Archie’s eyes bore into his, searching and wanting and complicated, so full of conflict that Cook’s a little confused.

“I just,” Archie says, and shivers, “I just want this, _this_ right now, let me, just for now, let me have this,” and Cook only nods and watches as Archie lifts again.

He’s so fucking beautiful it’s a little unbelievable, and Cook knows, he _knows_ that they were made to do this together. The way he fits into Archie, how his cock throbs and his body aches with pleasure, warm washes of heat and need and desire spreading through his body – he knows that he wants to do this _forever_ with Archie, for as long as he can. The sudden sweep of emotion he feels is a little disconcerting, such fierce affection and longing that it almost disconnects him from sex.

But then Archie is riding him hard, and fast, and he’s making _noises_ , and he can’t focus on anything but the perfect slick heat of Archie’s ass and how fucking amazing it feels to have his body pistoning up and down. The bed groans a little and Cook wonders in a daze if the other guys have gone home, or if they’re still downstairs, listening and laughing and making grossed out faces to each other – he realizes he doesn’t care.

“Oh my god,” Cook moans, feeling the climb of his orgasm, his body tilting eagerly up every time Archie slams down. His whole body is practically vibrating and Archie’s fingers keep clenching and unclenching on his shoulders. He looks – he _sounds_ \-- really into it, and that only turns Cook on even more. He growls and lifts his upper body up, his abs screaming in protest, tugging Archie down to kiss his mouth sloppily, one arm wrapped around the boy’s torso, the other clamped tightly on Archie’s ass. He holds him down even as Archie squirms on top of him, kissing back frantically, and thrusts up in quick succession, one, two, three, before Archie rips his mouth away and buries his face in Cook’s neck, keening as his cock jerks and spills between their bodies. His sides are heaving, his cock still jerking between their bodies as he rides out his orgasm, and Cook bites his lip and fucks up into Archie hard, the bed protesting loudly, and comes.

It feels like forever until he winds down, his arms still wrapped around Archie, who is still nestled into his lap, still connected. They’re both panting, and Archie hasn’t removed his face from Cook’s neck. Cook runs a gentle hand down his back, soothing him, murmuring soft things.

He rolls them both over to the side and pulls out, not missing the way Archie winces, just a little, and shifts uncomfortably. He’d get up and try to clean them both up, but Archie looks exhausted, his eyes closed and his mouth parted, still trying to catch his breath. So Cook stays where he is, feeling his body cool down, watching as Archie’s breathing evens out, falling into a rhythm. Cook reaches to the floor and pulls up the duvet they shoved aside during sex, using it to cover them both up for bed. But he doesn’t fall asleep right away.

Cook stares at Archie for a long time, the curve of his mouth, the smoothness of his cheeks, and the dark fan of his eyelashes. His hair is a mess, and he has dark circles under his eyes, but Cook can’t help but think he’s the most perfect thing he’s ever laid his eyes on. It may not be explicitly true, because God knows there are a lot of beautiful and perfect things in the world, but Cook thinks – yes, maybe David Archuleta is one of them, the best of them all. Some warm emotion settles in his chest – it makes him feel light, airy, but it makes his stomach clench too, makes him want to curl his arm around Archie and brush his lips over the boy’s forehead. Laying there and watching him sleep makes him think about laying in his own bed and falling asleep alone.

He doesn’t want to, any more. He doesn’t want to fall asleep alone. He wants to fall asleep next to Archie. And, he realizes, it doesn’t really matter if they’re falling asleep after sex or just after a long day or maybe after watching a movie and sharing popcorn – he just wants to be with Archie.

Fuck.

Like, for real.

More importantly he _really_ doesn’t want Archie to fall asleep next to anyone else. Just the thought makes jealousy curl up in his gut, and he can’t stand the idea of another person sharing Archie’s life like that. Being the one who makes him laugh and blush and push him up against walls or kiss him just to say hi. He and Archie have talked about the future, and Archie’s always said he wants a family, someone to love and be with, a monogamous relationship – so Cook knows he’s looking for something else, some _one_ else, something permanent. Not him.

The thing is, Cook understands with a start, he wants to be the permanent someone. He wants to – all of it, everything, through new records and long tours and huge fights and make ups and sharing holidays – he wants it all. He’s in love with Archie. Holy shit. He’s _in love_ with Archie.

Something seems to burst in his chest and suddenly that faint feeling of longing becomes about ten times as strong, and all he can do is lay there and _ache_ , and want, and count Archie’s breaths in and out until he falls asleep too, his dreams restless and unsatisfactory.

* * *

 

David rolls over in his sleep, groaning into his pillow as the familiar feeling of nausea begins to creep into his stomach, driving him awake. He opens his eyes slowly, looking around for the clock to check the time—the website said the nausea was supposed to die down in the second trimester, which was kind of—close, anyway. He can’t see the clock though, or the bright red numbers illuminating the otherwise dark room. What he _can_ see is the messy tufts of hair poking out from under the blanket, and he suddenly remembers—if he sits up, moves the blanket down a few inches, he’ll see David Cook in his bed.

 _Crap_ , he thinks, and even though he kind of wants to sit and stare and run thoughts through his head—what does he do, how does he pretend this never happened, oh, _Gosh_ —the angry waves in his stomach push him out of the bed, and he runs to the bathroom down the hall, still naked, barely making it to the toilet before he’s sick—like every morning. (And by morning, he means _two_ o’clock in the morning. It’s _awful_.)

Part of him wants to go back to sleep when he’s finished ten minutes later, except—he can’t, with Cook there. And he’s not going to wake Cook up at—he checks the clock in the bathroom—one forty-seven in the morning and kick him out. Especially since it’s _David’s_ fault they’d, um, had sex again.

But to be fair, the pregnancy hormones are driving him _crazy_ , and he was already really, all whatever, over Cook so he’s the only one he could actually maybe get away with pouncing on. (Because, Gosh, that’s kind of what he’d done, dragging him upstairs without any explanation, ignoring Neal and Andy and Andrew—and oh, that was all sorts of embarrassing _now_ —they probably _knew_.)

He spends the next four hours folding laundry and organizing the food in the fridge. He ends up sneaking back into the room to grab clothes, and then writes a note before leaving for work two hours early— _Had to run for interviews! Eat whatever you want! :)_

He doesn’t look at whatever it is that Cook texts him three hours later.

 

Cook calls a few days after that. It’s just a few days until David’s album comes out. It gives him the excuse he needs to say _sorry_ when Cook asks if he wants to get together.

He hasn’t really had as many bad headaches lately, but he has one all day after that. He takes a few moments between interviews and goes to the restroom, and stares in the mirror, wondering if the extra nausea and headaches are because the baby is mad at him. That’s silly though, and he wets his face before going back out for the sixth interview of the day, unconsciously leaving a hand by his stomach through the whole thing.

 

* * *

Cook bites down on the plastic spoon hanging from his mouth and huffs a sigh around it, sliding his phone back into his pocket. He slides down against the back of his leather couch, trying to ease his anxiety. The past couple of weeks have been a whirlwind – after Archie’s house warming party things kind of, well, changed. It’s terrifying in a way, loving Archie _that_ way, understanding that it’s more than just sex, it’s more than what he bargained for, but it’s worth it to try to make their relationship more than just casual hook ups and friendship. Cook _wants_ more.

It’s not easy when Archie keeps ignoring him.

Cook spits the spoon out and digs his phone out of his pocket again, his finger hovering over the ‘Dial’ option when Neal emerges from the kitchen, balancing a takeout box in one hand.

“Who are you calling?” he asks through a mouthful, his eyes flickering to Cook’s hand. “Not that Archuleta kid again. I thought you said it wasn’t serious.”

Cook puts the phone down and shrugs, his mouth in a tight line. “Why does it matter?” he asks back, a little sharply. It’s none of Neal’s business what his and Archie’s relationship was like.

Neal makes a face through his leftovers. “Uh, because it’s not going to work out dude. It’s kind of pathetic, how you keep calling and texting him. Can you not read between the lines? He’s blowing you off man. He doesn’t want to hang out. It’s not serious to him so, so just stop trying to make it something it’s not. I don’t want to deal with your sorry, weepy ass when he ends things.”

Neal turns around and walks away, but Cook freezes, trying to process what his best friend just told him. He hadn’t even – okay he’d been a little worried that Archie was ignoring him, but mostly he just figured he was busy with the new album and everything, and it’s not like he and Cook hang out all the time, but now that Neal’s pointed it out, Cook can’t help but thinking Archie really _is_ blowing him off. He feels a sweep of hot shame rush through him; shame, and embarrassment, and that burning ache that rejection leaves. It _stings_. But sometimes, he swears, and every time he called Archie in the past, Archie had always called back, or asked for a rain check, if a certain time didn’t work out. Not this, not canceling, not avoiding. What could have changed? What was different _now_?

“Neal you’re an asshole!” he yells, belatedly. There’s no answer. He didn’t really expect one.

* * *

 

David gets home at around eleven the day before _The Other Side of Down_ comes out. His nerves are high, but he’s exhausted, and so he doesn’t even check his messages before taking a shower, brushing his teeth and falling under the covers of his bed. He’s almost asleep when the phone, left ignored on his end table, starts ringing, the music from Cook’s _Daily Anthem_ spilling out. He’s more than tempted to ignore it.

He throws a hand out to grab at it and finally pushes the green _talk_ button five rings in, and brings it to his ear as he sleepily mumbles, “Cook?”

“Hey Arch,” Cook says from the other side of the line. “Sorry it’s so late, did I wake you up?”

“No,” David admits, “but I was about to go to sleep, so, um, what did you need?”

“Tomorrow’s the fifth, what do you think I need?” Cook says, and David can hear his amusement slip through the sound.

David smiles, and says, “Thanks. It’s kind of—I’m a little nervous. But I have a lot to do in the morning, so, um, can we talk later?”

Cook makes a noise, like a _mm_ , and David grips the phone harder. “Yeah, sounds good. You gonna’ have lunch tomorrow? Or dinner? Whatever.”

David is two seconds from agreeing, somehow, when he remembers that that’s— _no_. He can’t _do_ that anymore, it’s not fair to him, or Cook, or—or the baby. And like it or not, he has to start thinking about stopping this weird arrangement they have. It’s not like Cook will want to keep doing it once David starts _showing_ and everyone figures it out anyway, but David doesn’t want to be rejected like that. His stress levels are already going through the roof and it’s only the end of his first trimester now. There are _three_.

“Tomorrow—it’s going to be really busy,” David says, finally. Then: “I’m sorry. I—maybe later?”

Cook is quiet for a second, and then says, “I get it. Later then. I’ll call you and we’ll make a date, alright?”

David nods against his pillow, and then adds audibly, “Alright.”

They hang up. David grips his phone hard until the display turns off to save power. He puts it back on the end table and breathes, closing his eyes. Later—later when? Later when he’s grown four sizes? Later when he’s shopping for diapers and bottles and baby clothes? Later _when_? When he has a car seat in the back and a baby gate on the stairs and—

There isn’t a later.

 

David had been pretty sure there was nothing good about being pregnant. The headaches are awful; the fatigue is driving him crazy almost as much as the stress. He’s always vomiting at the worst times and he has random urges for things like ice cream and honey or whatever, and when he can’t find them, he just eats whatever is in the house instead. It’s not even that he’s hungry—which he knows is coming—but rather that he just… needs to eat, and he catches himself biting his nails more than once. He doesn’t think he’s had more than four hours of sleep at a time since before he’d even peed on the stupid stick, which makes him way more cranky than he should be, and he thinks people—like poor Sarah, she’s putting up with so much from him these days—are starting to notice.

Except—except then he feels it. He’s lying on the couch, and it’s late—like almost midnight late, but he couldn’t get to sleep in his bed, so he was just changing location as a sneaky tactic or something, but _he feels it_. It’s just a twinge at first, and he adjusts his hips, keeping his eyes closed, but then it happens again. He reaches down with a hand to feel where it hurts—not hurts, exactly, but, halfway there, he snaps his eyes open and lies as still as he can.

It happens again.

The baby—the baby is _kicking_ him. The baby is kicking him. Kicking— _the baby is kicking_.

Everything is suddenly more than insomnia and nausea and stress. That’s—that’s real, that’s a little human, with little feet, and it’s moving—it’s _kicking_. He can’t—he sits up, and the little movements stop for a minute. Long enough for his heart to stop too, and he’s touching his stomach with both hands, desperately looking for that distinctive pressure, before it comes again, slightly to the left of where it had been the first couple times.

He can’t help it when he starts to cry, and he doesn’t move his left hand as he fumbles for his cellphone and pushes his Caller ID down, looking for Cook’s name. It takes what seems like _forever_ for Cook to pick up, and when he does, he’s groggy and rumbling, soft and obviously barely awake, as if pulled away from sleep. “Arch?”

“ _Cook,_ ” David says, still sobbing, and he almost—he almost says everything, about the kicking and the headaches and the insomnia and the stress and the pregnancy test in the gas station. He almost asks, _Why did you forget the condom? Why did you have to forget it right_ then _?_

He just cries instead, and talks about the album, and mumbles about anything but babies and sex and how much he wishes Cook would just come over and hold him, hold the baby, hold them together, like some crazy messed up family. Cook stays on the phone with him until nearly two in the morning, and David apologizes five times, says he doesn’t know what came over him, it was just—insomnia and stress from the album. He hangs up the phone only after promising to have lunch with Cook next week.

 

He slips into bed the next night, and takes a shaky breath before he starts to sing, slowly, _rock a bye, baby, in the treetop, when the wind blows, the cradle will rock_. His palm is resting flat against his stomach, although the baby isn’t kicking right then. He keeps singing until he finishes the song, and then manages to fall asleep easily for the first time in months.

 

They go to a little café type place that Cook suggests. He says that Kyle’s son is actually the one that found it, but doesn’t elaborate on the story because they get distracted by a man sitting at the front, near the entrance, playing guitar and singing a cover of Lady Gaga’s _Pokerface_. It’s not that bad, really, and David lets Cook linger there long enough that they listen to the whole song and clap when the man’s done, and Cook gives him a twenty, pulling his arm away from David’s shoulder to do so. David jumps, and steps a few feet back to go into the restaurant, wondering exactly when Cook had put his arm around David’s shoulder in the first place, and why hadn’t he even noticed?

They talk about Andrew’s new girlfriend and Neal’s new tattoo, and the fight that David’s parents seem to be making into a never-ending sort of thing. Cook tells a bad joke and David points out the flaws, so Cook tells it again, only revised, and it’s actually still not funny, but David laughs anyway. When Cook asks if he wants to head back to his place though— _watch a movie or something_ , he says, smiling—David swallows and shakes his head.

“I have to—interview, later,” is what he says, getting up so fast that his chair scrapes against the ground, making a loud noise. “I—I’ll see you!”

He doesn’t know if he’s proud of himself for getting out of a Cook-related event without having sex, or if he’s just depressed that he wishes he could turn around.

 

A couple days later, and completely out of the blue, he walks into the office to hear Sarah on the phone, kind of, um, mad. She’s not yelling or anything, but—her shoulders are tight and her eyes sharp. She puts a finger up so that David will know to be quiet, and says into the phone, “Yeah, yeah, I’ll tell—what’s the official line? ‘Moving onto new adventures?’ You’re kidding—alright, fine, just—I’m not happy with this.”

“What’s going on?” David asks, and there’s a little twinge at his side. He’s already pretty good at ignoring the whole persistent kicking thing. (It was amazing the first night, not so much the second or third or… yeah. He’s having some sleeping issues.)

“Management—above Jive’s heads, they’re saying—has decided Mike needs to move on. New adventures, they said. He’s not going to be playing for you on tour anymore. They’ve got a replacement coming in, I guess. We’ll meet him in a few days.”

“What?” David says, “But—but why? Mike’s—Mike’s great, Sarah, I don’t—“

“I don’t know. Don’t ask me why management do the things they do. I’ve already put in my piece—they’re not changing their minds, sweetheart. We’ll have say goodbye to Mike.”

David stays a little upset for the rest of the day, and keeps looking at his phone, ready to text Mike or something, except Sarah hasn’t told him yet, and—it all just really sucks, mostly.

 

Halloween seemed to come out of nowhere, even though it was actually like two weeks later. He blames the fact that he’s barely had any sleep lately, with the combination of the pregnancy and album. He’s thankful for the break for a while though it kind of—well, it presents its own problems.

David isn’t really—he likes most foods, but he’s not that much of a sugar lover? He’s never really eaten cake or cookies or any type of candy in abundance and he doesn’t even like soda, so it’s—it’s really annoying that all the sudden, he can’t stop eating _sour gummy worms_. He’s never eaten gummy worms! At least, not the sour kind. And he wouldn’t have even started eating them if he hadn’t gone home and—it’s just, there was candy _everywhere_. From chocolate to starbursts to gummy worms and this weird chalky candy and popcorn balls and caramel apples—he pretty much couldn’t stop munching on sweets and candy all night. (He even had a huge piece of pumpkin pie that even _Daniel_ laughed at him for, it was so big.)

And then he went home, and the craving for _sour_ gummy worms were still so bad that he went to the grocery store and bought _four_ bags. Not even the little bags, because he’s clearly going crazy and bought four huge bags of sour gummy worms and—the really crazy part—is actually eating them.

It’s really not a good thing to be eating gummy worms constantly though, and Sarah is giving him this look that’s pretty much saying _What is going on with you?_ He should tell her, probably. He’s how far along now? A few weeks into the second trimester. She’s going to find out eventually, he knows, he just—he can’t tell her. It’s too—he just can’t. He can’t tell anyone yet. It’s too soon, and too scary.

That’s why it’s terrifying when they go to the photoshoot for some website—he can’t even remember what the company is called, or why they’re doing it, just knows that the stylist is yelling at Sarah, and she’s yelling back, and David doesn’t fit in the jeans that he’d tried on for this shoot _a week ago_.

He puts down the gummy worms.

 

In retrospect, it was a really stupid thing to do. David usually runs in the mornings—he loves it, the way his heart will beat fast and his lungs will work and his chest will ache. He likes the feeling that moving puts in your arms and legs and the fresh air is amazing for your mindset. It’s _good_ for you to run in the mornings. He hasn’t been doing it recently though, distracted by too many things.

He knows, somewhere in the back of his head, that gaining weight is normal when you’re carrying a baby. He knows that it’s healthy; that you can’t lose that weight short of _having the baby_. The stylist’s voice is still echoing inside his head though, and the same with Sarah saying, kindly, later on, “Maybe you shouldn’t eat so many of those sweets, David—not that I’m telling you what to do, but you don’t even like sweets, do you? What’s going on—you okay?”

He’s terrified, and so he puts on sweats and an old t-shirt and goes running in the middle of his fifth month being pregnant. It’s definitely a stupid thing to have done, considering, but it isn’t until after he gets that sudden wave of dizziness and he trips, slamming hard into the ground on his side, bruising his hip, that realizes how monumentally dumb an idea it was.

It’s not the first time he’s gotten dizzy out of nowhere, and had to sit down and just breathe for a moment before he could figure out where he was and what he was doing. But it’s the first time he was pitching forward when it happened, and it’s the first time he realizes how—how dangerous it could be.

He sits in the grass of the school he happened to fall onto for a good ten minutes.

He can feel the baby kicking, and he knows, rather than thinks, that it’s mad at him.

This was his mistake, and the consequences are going to get worse. He can’t fight them off by dieting or exercising, by risking his baby’s life. What if he’d fallen and landed on his stomach? What if the baby stopped kicking? What if—

He calls Sarah, and calmly tells her everything, and asks her to come pick him up. It’s been five months. He needs—what he needs is to go see a doctor, before he does anything else as stupid as trying to lose weight while he’s pregnant. She’s quiet on the other side of the line after he says it, but eventually she says, “Okay, okay, where are you?”

She comes to pick him up in a black jeep, and he thinks it’s her husband’s. She usually drives a little red Buick.

He almost doesn’t want to get in the jeep. She rolls down the window though, and smiles. “David, get in. I made an appointment with my gynecologist, alright? He’ll be discreet, but come on, we need to—we need to go, he’s expecting us.”

The first half of the ride is quiet, before Sarah finally says, “David, so—when—“

He stares at his shoes, “Beginning of September. That’s when I realized—or do you mean—five months. I’m—it’s been five months, I think.”

She nods and tightens her grip on the steering wheel. He’s nervous, tapping his feet together, waiting for her to yell at him, tell him how stupid he is for letting this happen—how could he do this? What’s the world going to think when they find out he’s not only had—sex—out of wedlock, but he’s _pregnant_? His career is over, it has to be. It’ll be wrecked when people find out. He’s an awful role model, how could he have let this _happen_?

When she speaks though, angry just like he thought she’d be, it’s not—it’s not about why it happened, or what’s going to happen, or about his career or public image or anything, and David sinks down in the seat and crosses his arms, just—trying to hide. “It’s been five months,” she says, quiet and mad, “It’s been five months and you haven’t _seen a doctor_. David, what were you thinking?”

“I—I didn’t know—“

“Exactly,” she says, turning into another street carefully. “You don’t know anything about what it means to be pregnant, David. Doctors—doctors know. What if there’s something—this isn’t just about you anymore, David. That’s a baby, and she, he, whatever it is, is your responsibility, and you’ve been doing a pretty crappy job with that so far. What are you going to do if something’s wrong?”

“I—“

“We’re here,” she interrupts. She parks the car in silence, and then before either of them get out, she turns and grabs David’s hand. “Hey, hey, David. I love you, alright? You’re one of the best kids I’ve ever known. It’s going to be okay. We’re going to fix this, and you’re going to be fine. I’m mad at you—but I’m not going anywhere.”

They go into a private room immediately rather than waiting in the lobby like most other patients. David is thankful even though it takes what feels like an hour to fill out all of the paperwork a nurse gives them. When they finally finish all of that, and David didn’t even know half of the answers, a nurse comes into the room and says, “Okay, we need a urine sample first, and then we’ll go ahead and weigh you, alright? After that we’re going to take your blood and run a few basic tests—and then doctor will come in and you’ll have your first ultrasound.”

David goes through everything without a real expression. He thinks maybe he’s scared, or in shock, or just trying to keep from blowing up and either yelling or crying or freaking out like a crazy person. He winces when they weigh him. He’s twenty pounds heavier than he was the last time he’d stepped on a scale. The nurse is smiling at him though, and says, “It’s good to gain weight, don’t worry.”

It’s not—he doesn’t mind gaining weight, really, it’s just, with his job—he thinks a lot of people are going to be disappointed with him. Will they reschedule photoshoots or cancel them all together? Or just get him new wardrobe? Or—he doesn’t even know how this is going to work.

The needle when they take his blood is big and the prick hurts for a few seconds after they’re done. He rubs at his arm while they go back to the little room and wait for the doctor.

“Get on the chair,” Sarah says, settling down in the smaller guest chair in the corner of the room. David looks at the big one, with all the equipment around it and the white plastic covering it. He does not want to sit there. He does anyway, when the door opens and a man comes in, white coat and clipboard signifying him as the doctor.

He’s smiling, at least, so David tries to smile back while he sits down.

“You’re David Archuleta?” the man says, holding out a hand. David shakes it awkwardly, nodding. “My daughter’s thirteen—she’s your biggest fan.” David tries not to wince, because that’s—she’s probably not going to be allowed to listen to his music anymore, not when her Dad knows David is all, whatever, pregnant and all of the stuff that goes with that.

“So, let’s get down to business. I’m Dr. Charles Taylor, but just call me Charlie, alright? I’ve known Sarah since she had her first child, so you’re in good hands, I promise. Can I ask you a few personal questions before we start the exam?”

David nods, breathes, says, “Yeah.”

“You said you think you’re about five months? Why haven’t you come in before?”

David tries not to look at Sarah, and fidgets for a second before saying, “I just—I was scared, I guess. I don’t really know what I’m doing. This—I didn’t mean for this to happen. It was an accident.”

The doctor doesn’t ridicule or chastise him, just nods and says, “Alright, we’ll get you all caught up today, shall we? I’m going to do an mpap after the ultrasound, sound good?”

He tells David to lean back on the chair until he’s practically lying down, and then he’s lifting up David’s shirt and David is closing his eyes tightly as something cold and wet and gooey feeling is being spread out along his belly.

“You barely have a bump yet,” the doctor muses, and then, “Ah, here we go, do you want to see?”

David breathes, and opens his eyes. Sarah stands up and comes over to hold his hand while they stare at the computer screen, black and gray and a little distinctive blob of baby. He can’t stop watching, barely acknowledging that the doctor is saying anything at all. There a little heartbeat, fluttering and rhythmic.

It’s amazing.

“David,” Sarah says, and he breaks his stare to look up at the doctor.

“What?”

“I asked if you’d like to know the sex,” the doctor says, chuckling. “I’m also guessing you’ll like a disc copy of the baby? And a picture?”

“Yeah,” David says. “I mean—all of it, yeah.”

The doctor looks back at the screen and says, “Looks like a little boy.”

David closes his eyes and lays his head back against the chair again, and squeezes them shut to try and keep the tears away. He’s having a baby—he’s having a baby _boy_.

The doctor makes a little _hmm_ sound then, and pushes a few buttons. He asks, “You said five months?”

“Yeah,” David replies, quietly.

“Do you have the exact date?”

David frowns, “Um, I think—it was around when _Something ‘Bout Love_ came out, I think, so—early July?”

“Hm,” the doctor says, and then wheels his chair over. “You couldn’t have consummated the baby after that?”

David shakes his head, “No.”

“I’ll be right back,” Dr. Charles says, and leaves the room.

“What does that mean?” David asks Sarah, sitting up.

She shakes her head. “He’s just asking lots of questions, David.”

They wait about twenty minutes before the doctor comes back in. “Alright,” he says, “You’re measuring at about sixteen weeks, but you’re telling me you’re about twenty. What this means is that the baby isn’t growing as quickly as he should be.”

David jerks, and scoots back in the chair. “What does—“

“It’s probably nothing serious,” the doctor says, “or else you would have likely had a miscarriage in the first trimester, which you didn’t. Can you tell me a little about your eating and exercise habits?”

“Right,” he says a few moments later, “With your current weight, you should be eating about 1800 calories a day, and with the baby you should be eating about 2100. And I don’t mean in candy, although cravings are perfectly fine to give into now and again. You haven’t been eating enough, and you’re working too hard.” He turns to face Sarah. “He needs a strict schedule—I want him home no later than ten every night. He needs eight hours of sleep—or at least be trying to sleep for eight hours every night. No more crazy hours.” He swivels around to face David again. “No jogging, running, power walking—none of that. Regular walking is fine if you feel up to it, but that’s it. Remember—2100 calories. I want you to keep a record of what you eat, and bring it with you when you come back for your next appointment. I’m scheduling that for next week, the 24th, alright? Ten in the morning sound good? We’ll have your blood work back by then. Speaking of which—is the other father in the picture?”

David shakes his head, eyes wide, hoping Sarah is copying all of this down.

“Alright,” Dr. Charles says, writing something down on his clipboard. “Do you know if any genetically transmitted diseases run in his family? Or is he Jewish, by any chance?”

“I—no, um—I know he has high blood pressure?” Sarah sends him a look. David doesn’t look back at her.

“Alright. I’m not going to do the mpap until we see if this new eating and sleeping schedule improves the baby’s growth. If it does, we’re good, right on schedule. If it doesn’t, we’ll run a few other tests, see what’s going on.”

They shake hands again after David gets off the chair.

The doctor adds, before they open the door, “My office will be discreet, Mr. Archuleta, but I do want you to realize that you’re going to get bigger as the baby does. How long are you intending to hide this from the public?”

David looks at Sarah, and then shakes his head. “I haven’t—I don’t know.”

 

He calls his mom that night. She’s quiet, at first, and then sighs and says something in Spanish that David can’t quite distinguish through the phone, but he thinks it was a prayer. They talk about everything the doctor said—David repeating it all and his mom asking questions and offering advice. So, candy is bad, bread and fruit is good. No coffee or soda or alcohol—not that he ever drank any of that stuff anyway, and he’s thankful about that. He can’t imagine what someone like _Cook_ would do if he was suddenly told he wasn’t allowed to have alcohol or coffee or soda or too many sweets or too much meat or, whatever.

He isn’t surprised when she eventually says, “David… Davey, who’s the father? The other father, I mean?”

He almost wants to tell her, but that’s—he _can’t_. His mom won’t get it, she won’t. “I can’t—Mom, it doesn’t matter, he’s not—we didn’t—this is just me.”

“Baby,” she says, “No matter what you think, this isn’t just you. He—he has as much to do with this as you.”

“I don’t want him to,” David says. “I don’t want him to have to, Mom. He didn’t mean for this to happen, and what’s the point in messing up both our lives because of it?”

“Wait, mijo, you haven’t told him?”

“That’s not—this is _different_ , Mom. We’re not dating or anything.”

“He’s still about to be a father, and he has no idea. You need to tell him.”

“I—I know. I’m—I don’t know, Mama,” David says, eventually.

His mom is silent for a little while. “I’ll have to come up to L.A, mijo,” she says after a minute, “and we can get that nursery of yours ready. You only have four months now, we’ll have to hurry. Any themes you like?”

David _hm_ ’s under his breath, and says, “Noah’s Ark?”

 

David’s not entirely sure how it happens. Maybe somebody from the doctors’ office wasn’t as discreet as they were supposed to be, or maybe somebody put together the fact that David’s gained twenty pounds and the fact that he went shopping with his mom at _Carter’s_. Maybe it’s because Claudia bought him a book titled _A Thousand Names for a Baby_ and gave it to him at an ice cream shop where he was eating vanilla and honey together. Maybe it was Daniel, tweeting, _My brother’s a man! Sorta…_ and speculation going wild.

Probably, David thinks, it was everything put together, and it was finally too much to fit in a box, hidden at the back of his closet.

Sarah comes to his house in the morning, and sits down at the kitchen table long enough that David says, “Um, did you want breakfast?”

“We have an interview in three hours, and TMZ just published the fact that you’re pregnant.”

The interview is supposed to be about his album, and the tour coming up, and his _music_.

It’s not.

David can’t really blame them.

“So TMZ came out with an interesting story earlier today—did you hear that you’re pregnant?” The woman in a blue suit asks, and she only looks half amused, like she’ll accept the idea that TMZ is crazy, but—

“Yeah,” David says, swallowing. “I guess—I guess everyone had to find out eventually? So, um, surprise!”

He doesn’t really think calling the rest of a day an explosion is an overstatement, but by the time he gets home, he doesn’t want to think about it at all. He doesn’t have a choice though, because Cook’s called three times in the past ten hours, and David knows it isn’t a, “Hey, you wanna’ hang out?” sort of call.

He’s home for exactly thirty-seven minutes before his phone starts ringing again, without press or family or managers surrounding him. He picks it up. “Hey, Cook.”

Cook sounds surprised that David actually answered, and hesitantly says, “Hey, Archie.”

They’re quiet for a few minutes, the silence stretching out until David can’t take it anymore. “So, you’re probably calling about, um.”

“Yeah,” Cook says, roughly. Then, quietly, “Is it—I mean, is it—“

David interrupts him before he can get the question out, before he can say it, before David can _ruin everything_ and tell Cook the truth. They weren’t two people who were happy, and in love, and ready to have children and puppies and share a house and a bed and a life. This happened to _David_ , not to Cook, and it’s his, it’s—it’s his, to take and deal with and live with.

“Don’t—don’t worry.” He breathes. “It’s not yours.”

After a moment, Cook says, “What?” like he doesn’t get it, doesn’t understand, like he’s confused and doesn’t believe David. David almost wants to laugh.

Sturdier, he says, “It’s not yours, Cook.”

“I don’t—“ Cook says, stopping. Then, “Whose is it?”

David’s answered that question more times than he can count today, and the whole past week. “It doesn’t matter,” he says. “He’s not—he’s not going to be involved. And I don’t really need him to be. Can we—can we not talk about—him? I just, today’s been really busy and—“

“Yeah, sorry, you probably need to sleep or—yeah,” Cook says, jerkily, like he’s the one who wants to throw down the phone and never talk to the person on the other side of the line again. David clutches the phone tighter as he says, “I—I’ll talk to you, um, later.”

“Yeah, Archie,” Cook says, and then there’s a click, and David slowly puts down the phone.

He cries hard enough that his headache builds and he gets sick. He wonders what would happen if he told Cook it _was_ his. Would they—would they share custody? Would they trade the baby back, on and off on weekends? Would they move in together and try to raise it like—like some crazy family on a soap opera? What if Cook didn’t want anything to do with it? What if he was mad? What if he wanted sole custody or just to keep pretending it wasn’t his at all?

It’s just—it’s better to do this on his own.

 

* * *

He knows it’s a really bad idea. He _knows_ that. But he’s already seen _three_ articles (with photographs!) speculating on who the father of Archie’s baby could be, and it’s only been four days since TMZ leaked the news. It’s so – it feels so invasive, to see Archie’s surprised face in the paparazzi shots, to see zoomed in photos of his stomach which just looks like how Archie’s stomach normally looks, only now Cook knows that it’s not normal, that there is a baby in there.

 _A baby that is not his._

 _It makes him weirdly achy and wistful and angry, all at the same time. It’s not like he wants a baby; Cook isn’t ready for a family, he isn’t ready to settle down. He should be _relieved_ that he isn’t the other father, but all he can feel is…disappointment. Disappointment, rejection, and this all-encompassing jealousy. Cook never thought of himself as a jealous person but apparently that is a lie, because there is nothing else this awful, angry, yearning emotion can be. And he’s beginning to understand it’s because he loves Archie, like, for real love, like, get married and raise a family and grow old and make music and fight and make love and do stupid, cheesy, romantic things for each other love. He _hates_ the idea that anyone else has even been near Archie, hates even more the idea that someone got to see Archie flushed and panting and wanting, got to be inside of him and possess him and make him cry out in passion, because all of that? Should be _Cook’s_ and no one else’s. _

He knows how irrational he’s being, how grossly possessive and immature it is to want to own Archie like that when they never defined their relationship in the first place, but – he’s in love with David Archuleta. He can’t change the way he feels.

His palms feel hot as he dials and he wonders why he’s doing this in the first place. It’s just – those magazines? There were so many _options_ for who the father could be. And sure, he was in a lot of them, but the speculation was wild and he couldn’t – it had to be _someone_ and, okay, maybe Cook is torturing himself, but he wants to _know_. He understands why Archie would want to keep it private but damn it, it’s not _right_ for him to go through this alone. He’s just – making sure. (He pushes the sick feeling away as the phone rings, and takes a long, slow breath.)

“Hello?” Mike answers and, yeah, this is so not going to go well, considering the way Cook’s hand tightens on the phone just from hearing his _voice_.

It’s not – it’s just a _chance_ , he knows that, but one article said something about how Mike getting fired from Archie’s band just a few days before the whole pregnancy thing came out was pretty suspicious and they were really close and they traveled everywhere and sometimes Mike would smile at Archie like, like – Cook had seen pictures, okay, and it’s impossible to _not_ smile at Archie, but _still_. (Clearly the green-eyed monster has raised its ugly head and isn’t backing down. Rational thought is out the window.)

“Hey it’s David Cook,” Cook says, the tension already coiling up in his gut. “Listen man, I – sorry to hear about, you know, you leaving Archie’s band.”

“Yeah it sucks. I liked performing with him – he’s a nice kid, you know?” _I do know_ , Cook thinks, and chokes it down. “It’ll be fine. I’m still writing, might find a new gig – I’m not sure yet.”

For a minute, Cook doesn’t know what to say. He’s not sure how to bring it up. So, finally he just – says it. “Listen, I – about Archie… Do you – I mean, are you the – Archie’s _pregnant_.” He feels stupid, and his tongue feels thick in his mouth and this was a _terrible_ idea.

“Oh shit, I know. I don’t even – wait, what?” Mike sounds confused. “Are you – are you asking if _I’m_ the father?” Cook makes a noise in his throat – sort of a yes. “Jesus Christ! I’m married! I have _kids!_ What – are you not the father?”

He – wasn’t expecting that. “Listen I just – what? I – no. No, I’m not the – that’s not the point – you definitely aren’t, uh, you know, involved?”

“Fuck, _no_ , Cook, I never was. And I just assumed it was yours. I mean, you and David were always so close, and it just seemed like the logical choice…”

“Well I’m not. I don’t know who is. I thought maybe – it doesn’t matter. He wants to keep it private, it’s his business.” Cook is somehow even more agitated now that he was before. It would have _sucked_ if the father was Mike but _not knowing_ still sucks more. _Fuck_ , he’s completely lost his mind. “I’m sorry I’m just – going a little crazy. I – worry about him.”

“I understand. I still can’t believe you thought it was me but, whatever. It’s not me. And apparently it’s not you.”

“Apparently,” Cook mumbles, and covers his eyes with his free hand. “Listen Mike, I’m really sorry. Hey, uh, good luck with the career and all that. Archie’s gonna’ miss you. He really liked you.”

It’s a little awkward now, but Mike acts like Cook didn’t just accuse him of an affair with a nineteen year old male pop star. “Thanks. I’ll see you around, Cook. Don’t go calling too many guys, okay?”

Fuck. He hangs up. Worst idea ever and he’s exactly where he started out – with no fucking clue about who it could be or what do to now or how to deal with these fucking emotions.

* * *

 

It’s a stupid Hollywood party that David has to go to for some sort of, um, movie premiere thing. He doesn’t really want to go, but Sarah’s trying to make him all, still out there, and proud and happy and stuff, about what’s happening now that the whole world knows about it. It’s for a movie—um, a Disney movie, or no—it’s an action? He doesn’t know, he didn’t actually go the movie, he had a doctors’ appointment that took longer than it was supposed to because the doctor wanted to take his blood and run some sort of test, or whatever.

He’s dressed in jeans that have an elastic waist that Sarah bought—and he can’t decide whether he’s annoyed or thankful, because they’re comfortable, but, elastic waist pants, oh my Gosh, _really_?—and a regular red t-shirt that isn’t supposed to show off his stomach (because he’d refused to do that, no, no, no way). People flash their cameras at him when he gets out of his car, and he smiles awkwardly as he walks through the red carpet area. Everyone yells at him to stop and pose for a picture, and then more and more questions are asked—some about the album, but mostly about the baby, and over and over again _Who’s the other father, David?_

He smiles and shakes his head and says, “I can’t, um, answer that question.”

He hasn’t told Cook, or his family, or his manager. He’s not going to tell some random reporter either.

The thing is though; he wasn’t expecting Cook to be at the party. He sees him the minute he walks in the room, because, well, he and Neal aren’t exactly, um, difficult to spot. He kind of ducks out of the way and tries to find somebody else he knows. He hasn’t talked to Cook in a week, not since that phone call, when Cook had tried to figure out what was going on. _Since he called to find out if he was a father and you lied to him,_ David thinks, and cringes.

Miranda yells at him from a few people down through the room, and David sinks into a chair at her table with relief. She’s smiling and asks things like _Is it a boy or a girl?_ and _When’s the due date?_ , but it’s way better than _Is it—_ and David answering _Don’t worry, it’s not yours._

He’s not sure what the point of the party is, really. There’s an actor from the movie there who comes over to talk to him for a few minutes, and David has to pretend he loved his character, but cuts the conversation short when he sees Cook looking at him through a few groups of other people. He has—he has an expression on his face that David doesn’t really know how to describe. Maybe—hurt? Or maybe even _mad_. Or possibly confused? Or David might just be freaking out because he doesn’t know how _he_ feels around Cook.

 _We were never dating_ , he thinks, walking quickly towards the building’s exit. They were never dating, it was all just casual—so casual they never talked about it except when it was actually happening. But now he’s carrying Cook’s _baby_. It shouldn’t matter—for Cook, that is, because David has no intentions of telling him it’s his. So their relationship shouldn’t be changing at all, except that they’re not going to, um, have sex anymore.

But everything is _off_. It’s awkward and confused and—and he’s not watching where he’s going. Somebody spilled something on the floor near the exit, and it’s red and sticky. David slips before he realizes it’s there.

He’s expecting to fall on the tiled floor, hard, and instinctively pushes an arm out so that he doesn’t land on his abdomen, except he doesn’t hit the ground at all, Cook catches him, grabbing him around the upper waist and holding tight, carrying all of David’s weight.

David breathes out a long sigh, and when he gets his balance back, pulls away from Cook and turns around to say, “Hey, Cook.”

Cook looks at him for a second, before he smiles. It’s not his regular big smile, David can’t help but notice, but it’s still—he’s still smiling. “Archie. Come on, sit down a minute.” His eyes slip down to David’s stomach, and David wants to cover himself up. He barely manages to hold back, folding his hands into fists at his side.

“Yeah,” he says, and they end up sitting down at a nearby table.

David isn’t sure how they end up talking for two hours, but it’s probably because Cook jumps into talking about his music, and then David’s music, and it’s the first time in what feels like months that he _hasn’t_ been talking about the baby. And—he’s missed Cook. He likes Cook, he’s one of his best friends. It’s nice to just sit and talk to him, and not be afraid of it somehow turning into sex or Cook finding out the truth.

He’s laughing at one of Cook’s stupid jokes when he leans back, and not thinking about it, isn’t folding his arms across his stomach. He doesn’t notice until Cook chokes off his laugh, and David follows his gaze down to where his t-shirt is stretching across his stomach from the way he’s sitting. He sits up immediately, and bites his lip, because it—it looks awful, like he’s hiding a ball under his shirt, and he’s just—he doesn’t mind not being attractive, he doesn’t think he really is, but—

This is Cook, and he’s seen David naked, sweaty and gripping him as they move together under sheets, and this is—David doesn’t _want_ Cook to see him like this, gross and bloated and _fat_. It’s stupid. He doesn’t—he can’t have sex with Cook anymore, why should he care if Cook doesn’t think he’s—if Cook doesn’t want to? Stupid—stupid pregnancy hormones, this is their fault, it has to be.

“Archie,” Cook says, quietly. David bites his bottom lip. “How is—“ Cook breaks off, takes a deep breath. “How’s the baby? I mean—I’ve heard—“

“He can hear you,” David blurts out, a little kick in his low abdomen suddenly reminding him. “Talking about him, I mean. He can—do you want to—“ Scouring up his courage, David reaches out takes Cook’s hand, and pulls it up against his belly, over the shirt. He stretches his hand over the top of it, and it only takes a moment before Cook’s eyes widen and he jerks back. He puts his hand back right away though, and leans forward.

“Jesus Christ, he’s kicking already? That’s—“ he looks at David, who smiles back softly, heart beating fast. “—that’s incredible, Archie.”

“I—do you remember, um, a while ago? I called you, like, in the middle of the night freaking out?”

Cook smiles. “Yeah.”

“That was the first time he kicked,” David admits.

Cook’s grip tightens a little, but it’s more comforting than anything else. David contemplates right then, just for a moment, telling Cook everything—that the baby is his. He doesn’t though, just smiles instead.

Later, when Cook takes his hand back and stand up, David can barely stop himself from reaching out and grabbing him, pulling him back close, wanting him to stay there. He does manage it though, and they wave before separating ways, going home.

 

The interviewer—a man David’s been interviewed by before, and he’s really nice—keeps saying weird things. Like _So, Mike was kicked out of the band a few months ago,_ and _Didn’t you go to a Benton Paul concert about seven months ago?_ with like, he’s all, winking, and stuff, and oh my Gosh, he’s totally implying things, and David is the worst at answering things like that.

“Um—“ he says, a lot, and “No, actually—“ and more of “Oh my Gosh, _no_ ,” than he thinks he’s ever said in one sitting ever before. Like, in his entire life.

Eventually—thank goodness—they get around to talking about David’s album, and he gets to say that the tour’s been postponed, but will definitely still happen, it’ll just be a little different—shorter, and his Mom is coming along this time to help with the baby, and Amber and Jazzy.

He totally shouldn’t have figured that was it on the baby talk. That’s _never_ it on the baby talk.

“So we saw you—and by we, I mean some guy with a camera who needs to get a life, he’s totally not employed by us—that you were hanging out pretty close with David Cook at the _Double Weapon_ premiere last week.”

He winks again. David is kind of hoping it’s like, a medical condition, or something.

“Um, yeah,” he says, slowly. “Cook’s still a good friend of mine, and he’s a great guy. We just ran into each other, so we decided to, kind of, just catch up a little? Nothing, like, suspicious or whatever.”

“So he’s not the Dad either?” He actually looks a little dejected now, like Cook was his secret card or something.

David frowns. “No, um—no, he’s—but he’s going to be an awesome Uncle, if that makes you feel any better?”

The interviewer pauses, and then nods. “Slightly. But just because you’re adorable and pregnant.”

David throws his hands up, and goes, “Oh my Gosh, don’t _say that_ ,” and then even the lady behind the camera laughs, and it’s like, a total lost cause. It’s not the worst interview ever, but it sort of feels like it at the moment. (He totally doesn’t let the guy touch his stomach when he asks a minute later.)

 

David is tapping his feet against the couch’s arm, fidgeting constantly. His phone is hooked under his ear, and for some reason, he’s been talking to Cook for three hours. The baby’s kicks are kind of—it’s like there’s no rhythm to them at all, and they’re completely random. David’s thinking a soccer player maybe, but definitely not a musician. He says so to Cook too, kind of like—grumbling, and complaining. He _shouldn’t_ complain so much, and he generally tries not to, it’s just, Cook is so _nice_. And he doesn’t mind when David complains, or gets annoyed, and needs to throw pillows and groan and cross his arms while pouting for an hour.

The mood swings are a full-time job, is what his mom said, when he’d asked her. Cook just chuckles and smiles and makes really awful jokes that shouldn’t be funny but end up being _hilarious_ at two in the morning when David’s taken the new medication the doctor gave him, and—really, it’s just, Cook is really easy to talk to.

It started a few days after the movie premiere, when Cook texted him at like, eleven, and was all, “Buzz Lightyear or Spongebob?” and David called back to go, “What?” because he couldn’t sleep anyway (he’d even tried warm milk, but the baby is like, _nocturnal_ or something). And then he found out Cook was totally _Christmas Shopping_ for the baby, like, what. (And Cook had totally let him think we was shopping out, like, real, not at home on the computer because he was bored or whatever, and David had flailed and said, “Cook, Christmas is a month away, why are you midnight shopping!” before Cook finally told him the truth.)

David’s not sure how smart that is, actually, but—biology aside, Cook is his best friend. Why should that change just because of a baby?

 

* * *

Cook is really glad that Archie started talking to him again, glad that he can be in Archie’s life again even if—even just as a friend. It’s shitty timing though, realizing that he’s completely in love with Archie while finding out that Archie is pregnant with another man’s baby. (And he remembers what it was like, reading the gossip magazines, feeling tense and skeptical and anxious, until he watched Archie nod and laugh nervously, confirming the rumors. Calling Archie again and again until the boy finally picked up so Cook could ask “Is it – I mean is it – ?” with hope rising in his belly, tight and hot and _everything_ , Christ, only to have Archie tell him not to worry, that it’s not his. That – that felt like getting punched in the gut, the hope flickering out and dying, shriveling. He had no idea it meant that much.)

He realized too late that he was in love with Archie. Sure, _now_ he knows why he always felt so protective, and so possessive, but it didn’t hit him until after Archie moved into his new house, until Archie dragged him upstairs and sucked hickies onto his collarbones; he didn’t realize until he watched Archie pass out beside him, exhausted and naked and glowing, his lips parted and fingers curled loosely around Cook’s wrist. He knew, then, that he always wanted to fall asleep like this, Archie within reach, peaceful and sated and content.

That’s why he tried to – but Archie kept pushing him away, ignoring his phone calls and canceling lunch dates. Cook gets it, he does, especially understanding what Archie was going through - _is_ going through. He’s grateful that Archie’s allowing him this much, the closeness, talking and hanging out again, but he can’t help but burn with jealousy every time Archie puts a protective hand over his belly unconsciously, and wonders who the other father is. What kind of an asshole got to have Archie, got to have _all of this_ , and wasn’t even there for him? For _them_?

It’s not – Cook can deal with it. He just wants to make sure Archie is _okay_. From what he’s found out, Archie didn’t even go to a doctor until like, the second trimester or something. So really, he’s just trying to be a good friend and make sure Archie doesn’t try something crazy, like climb on a ladder to put up Christmas decorations or something. He stops by a convenience store on the way over and buys a few big bags of sour gummy worms, recalling how Archie had complained about running out a few nights ago during their ritual phone call. (“Don’t make fun of me,” Archie had warned when he’d explained his cravings to Cook, who had to bite his lip to keep from laughing. It was just so typical that Archie would crave _sugar_ while pregnant – the one guy who rarely ate sugar, of course.

“I didn’t say a word,” Cook said in his defense, but he was grinning.

“I can totally hear you all, whatever, _smiling_ ,” Archie accused, but instead of laughing Cook kind of – melted, warmth blooming in his chest and spreading to the rest of his body. His throat felt tight, but then Archie changed the subject, and Cook could focus on being normal again.)

Archie had said he’d leave the door open (after Cook had invited himself over, when Archie said “I had people bring the tree in and set it up, but I don’t know how I’m going to get the star on top; maybe one of those long hook things? Like how they use at department stores?” and Cook had this flash image of Archie accidentally pulling the entire tree down on top of him with the hook and said, “Oh no Archuleta, no _way_ — I’ll come over and help,” despite Archie’s protests) so Cook just turned the handle and walked in, the bags of gummy worms tucked under his arm.

The house is warm and there are boxes in the hallway labeled ‘Christmas Decorations! ☺’ that are open, still half full of things Archie hadn’t unpacked yet. “Archie?” Cook calls, following the faint sound of Christmas music until it leads him to the living room.

He leans against the doorframe and smiles at the sight that greets him. Archie is wearing loose black sweat pants and wooly looking socks, and a red sweater that would normally be two sizes too big, but pulls a little over the obvious belly that Archie is sporting. Cook can’t help but think that pregnancy suits the other man – he’s all baby, barely an ounce of actual fat on him, but his face is fuller and softer, and he gets this look sometimes, wistful and anxious and hopeful, and Cook just wants to wrap his arms around him and tell him its okay.

His back is turned to Cook, and he’s reaching up to drape a garland of holly across his window, struggling a little on his tip toes. His voice still pours out, strong and confidant as the carol plays in the background. Cook smiles and sets the gummy worms down, crossing his arms and listening for a minute before giving in and joining in.

“Have yourself a merry little Christmas,” he sings, sliding his harmony into the second chorus and startling Archie, who jumps and spins, his eyes as round as his stomach, his hands jerking down. The holly, perched precariously to begin with, falls down around his head, draping along Archie’s shoulders and making him look like the lost Christmas elf of the North. Cook breaks off his singing, bursting into laughter instead at the sight.

“Cook! Oh my gosh, you _scared_ me,” Archie says, when Cook stops laughing. “You could have knocked or something!” His hands are on his hips, his lips pursed and his cheeks flushed. Cook grins fondly and leans forward (maybe a little too close, if Archie’s quick intake of breath and wide eyes are any indication) to put his hands on the boy’s shoulders. He stays there a fraction to long, just smiling at Archie, his fingers lingering at the place where Archie’s neck meets his sweater before he pulls back, lifting the garland of holly from Archie’s shoulders.

“You told me the door would be open! And you wouldn’t have heard me anyway, singing the way you were,” Cook says, reaching up to string the garland correctly. He stands back and admires his work, elbowing Archie gently. “Look at that – aren’t you glad I’m here?”

He looks over and – and Archie’s staring at him with this weird look on his face, a mysterious half-smile and his eyes far away. Cook’s breath catches in his throat and he stares back, because sometimes, sometimes he used to see that look on Archie’s face when they were together, tangled in the sheets and mouths on each other. It was fond and wistful and content all at once, and something else, something Cook couldn’t – didn’t understand. Cook wants to kiss him, his lips burning with phantom sensation, and he leans in –

Archie seems to snap back to the moment then, looking away from Cook. He’s still smiling though, his eyes bright and happy. “Yeah,” he murmurs, “I’m glad you’re here.”

* * *

 

David manages to get back home by the twenty-eighth. Home as in, Los Angeles, not Utah. His family had wanted him to stay, but he still had work. It’s not being pregnant gave you an excuse to stop singing or giving interviews—he just wasn’t doing any huge shows or flying to the Philippines. So he had to get home, even though his mom wanted him to be in Utah with the family for his twentieth birthday. Actually, now that he’s thinking about it, he’s glad he’s turning twenty, at least, before the baby is born. It’s like a line, somehow, to not—to not be nineteen, means he’s not a teenager anymore. He’s an adult, and he’s totally capable of raising a child, even by himself.

Or at least, being twenty makes him think he is.

Cook randomly shows up at his front door at around six, with gummy worms in one hand and _Tangled_ in another. David nearly drops his phone, and mouths _Tangled?_ , pointing to the DVD while letting Cook in and closing the door behind him. “Oh, yeah,” he says into the phone, Benton talking about—um, something, a show where fans were like, jumping and screaming in unison and stuff. “Benton, I, um—“

“Is Cook there?”

David sighs, “How do—“

“It’s your birthday, man, as if he was going to let you spend it on your own.”

“Mmhm,” David mumbles, and kind of wants to just, glare at the phone when Benton hangs up.

“That that Paul kid?” Cook asks, kind of, odd-like, after David slips his phone back into his pocket.

“Yeah, he was just, you know, ‘happy birthday David!’” David says, kind making the last three words sing-song like to emphasize the whole conversation. “Gosh, do you really have Tangled? It’s not even out yet, how did you do that?” David asks then and tries to grab the DVD out of Cook’s hand.

“Nope, no way, not until I get the birthday hug.”

David rolls his eyes a little, and with a sigh goes ahead and holds out his arms, and Cook grabs him into a hug that’s, well, warm and huge and comforting and um, David wouldn’t actually mind doing this forever, but.

“Also,” Cook says, pulling back and handing the bag of gummy worms to David. “I’m the American Idol. You think I can’t get a hold of a movie that hasn’t been released yet?”

“You’re not the American Idol _anymore_ ,” David says, before sitting down on the couch and ripping open the bag of gummy worms. They aren’t the sour kind, but, well, David appreciates it anyway.

Cook sits next to him, and David lets himself slide over a little, just—just leaning in a little bit. It’s—he’s been really kind of affectionate lately? He thinks it’s the baby, knows it’s the baby, but, well, it’s not like Cook cares, they’ve done a lot worse than half-cuddle on a couch while watching Disney movies.

“Yeah,” Cook says, after he coughs and moves an arm so that it’s over David’s shoulder. “I guess not.”

 

“You’re amazing, you know that?” Cook says one night, after they’ve been on the phone for hours. David is warm in his bed, with three pillows behind him, but he keeps having to interrupt the whole _going to sleep_ thing with bathroom breaks every fifteen minutes and twice already he’s had to throw up. (It’s actually pretty bad—like, it’s gotten to the point where the doctor is telling him to eat 2500 calories a day because he just keeps getting rid of it all when the bouts of nausea kick in.) So he’s been complaining about all of that—and the headaches, and the insomnia, which is pretty par-for-the-course when it comes to his midnight conversations with Cook these days. He’s kind of, um, avoided getting into talking about his hormones, which have gone all wonky again lately and he’s totally glad Cook hasn’t come over because he hasn’t had sex since the last time, with the housewarming party, or whatever, and—well, it’s not like having sex is even possible, he has a mini-balloon under his shirt now, but it’s still—he still gets all hot and weird and flustered sometimes, randomly, and especially when Cook pitches his voice all deep and rough and—anyway, he’s just glad Cook’s been busy with _his_ album lately.

“No, I’m not,” David says. Clearly—he’s spent the whole night complaining. That really, really, really does not qualify as amazing. “I’m really not.”

Cook grins—or David thinks he does, it _sounds_ like he is, somehow—and says, “You really kind of are.” And then quieter—“Kinda’ crazy how amazing you are.”

David’s not even—not even sure if he was supposed to hear the last part, but it makes his cheeks heat up anyway, and the baby kicks him right as he’s about to deny it again.

He bites his lip, and instead says, “So are you.”

Cook coughs after a second, and jumps into a story about the old MWK days, but David’s kind of stuck on that for the rest of the phone call. He’s not really sure why.

 

He can’t believe this is happening. He can’t—he knows it’s always sort of been there, the whole—

He’s never been in love with Cook.

He’s always liked him though—loved him, sort of, but in a—in a different way. Cook was who got him through American Idol, and the tour—just thinking about him can make David smile or laugh or roll his eyes. It’s _Cook_ , he’s—he’s one of David’s best friends, he _is_ David’s best friend, and even though they had that whole other dimension of their relationship sort of going on, David’s never been— He’s never really thought about kissing Cook outside of sex. It’s _always_ been about the way Cook’s eyes would go all—all dark and intense, and how he’d pull him aside, out of the room, and run his mouth down David’s throat, and slide his hands across David’s hips, touching the skin and making it burn with this hot—hot need and want and desire. But that was—that was it. He never daydreamed about Cook saying, _I love you_ , and taking his hand, and giving him flowers or chocolates on Valentine’s Day or whatever it was that people did when they were in love.

He’s eight months—he’s eight months pregnant. He’s exploding like some sort of crazy hormonal blimp, alright, and this _can’t be happening_. God can’t be that _cruel_. It was—it was a mistake that he got pregnant, just two people not paying enough attention. It’s not supposed to be more than that.

It was barely a few minutes ago that David had complained into the phone, “He won’t stop _kicking_.” It was two in the morning, and David hadn’t been able to sleep because the baby was trying to be a night owl.

Cook had chuckled and said, “Alright, alright, let me—put the phone down so he can hear it, alright?”

And David _had_ , he’d held it against his belly, swollen and stretched and sort of amazing anyway (not that he lets anyone see it without the shirt, because, well, no.) He’d heard Cook start singing, and closed his eyes, just listening to the faraway sound. It was nice enough that _he_ almost fell asleep, so eventually he’d moved the phone back up to his ear to say, “The baby stopped! I think he fell asleep, oh my Gosh, thank you, Cook.”

Except—except he didn’t say anything. Cook’s voice was deep and rough, just, naturally perfect for the genre he made music in, but right then, it was—it was slow, and soft, and _gentle_ and David couldn’t interrupt him, couldn’t _stop_ him.

 _And we'll linger on, time can't erase a feeling this strong, no way, you're never gonna’ shake me, ooh darling, ‘cause you'll always be my baby._

He was in love with Cook.

It was—oh, Gosh, it’s—he’s in love with _Cook_ , soft and sweet and singing for David’s—for their—baby through the phone at two in the morning, and—

If he told Cook—would they still laugh at Cook’s bad jokes, and would they still go out to café’s, and would they still play each other music and would they still—would they still be them? He doesn’t even know what he’s thinking—if he told him he was in love with him? If he told him he was the father of the baby? If he—

And it’s too _late_ now, if David told him, Cook wouldn’t believe him. Or he’d be mad that David had lied to him—disappointed too, maybe. And whatever David would be hoping to get out of telling him—whatever he _wanted_ , and he still doesn’t really _know_ , but whatever it is—he’d lose the chance to have it for sure.

 

David tries to ignore Cook for two days, but that ends with Cook calling and leaving a message where he’s all, singing, like, obnoxiously, and really awful lyrics, what was that, rap or something? and David ends up picking up the phone just to get him to _stop_. So that doesn’t really work. It’s just, Cook’s been—been _amazing_ , these past couple months, actually, and David can’t imagine losing him right now.

He sleeps better when Cook comes over and ends up sleeping on the couch, or when Cook will talk to the baby through the phone— _or sing_ , David’s brain reminds him meanly—or bring gummy worms and Disney movies and sends him texts like, “Would you ever name the baby ‘Bubble’?” (Which, no, he would never name the baby Bubble, although, um, it’s fine for like, Lady Gaga or—not that Lady Gaga’s—that’s—oh, Gosh, foot, mouth, why does that keep _happening_ to him? And Cook just _laughs_ at him.)

But even though they talk kind of constantly, it still comes as a surprise when he walks back into his house after a really short day at the studio—Sarah had just needed him for like two minutes, Gosh, it was hardly worth the gas cost—when there’s twenty or more people in his living room, jumping up and being all smiley and excited and there are blue balloons and strings and plastic baby bottles and—David thinks that’s like, a _wall_ of diapers, and Cook is there in the middle, all like, smug, and with Carly and Brooke and Johns and—

It’s a _baby shower_.

He blames the pregnancy hormones when he starts crying. It’s not even sad tears, or stressed tears, they’re _happy tears_. David doesn’t cry very much—he does, like, sometimes during church or when his cousin died, or things like that, but he doesn’t cry at baby showers. At least not ordinarily. He spins around and goes, “You guys! I can’t believe—“ and pretends to be looking at the balloons and all the little good luck wishes written on them, so that he can maybe, like, get control of himself, except Carly runs over and hugs him, saying, “Daaaaavid!” in this loud Irish accent that is completely Carly. Brooke is there too, and all of his sisters, so his Mom must be nearby (and he didn’t even know they were in town, what, Gosh) and Johns and Stacy are totally standing by with cups, and smiling, and he can’t hide the fact that he’s crying at all.

It’s kind of an awesome way to start a baby shower.

 

First off, David is pretty sure if he tries feeding the baby the weird glop in that glass container that Carly is trying to get Dave to try, the baby will grow up to hate him. It’s just— _ew_. All of them are really gross, even just the smell, so tasting them is—really icky. He thinks the one in his hand is bananas. But he’s not tasting it to make sure. He looks at Cook, whose writing on his little notebook _peaches_. David had thought that one was apricots, oops.

He passes the bananas one to Cook, and says, “Isn’t there, um, something else I could feed him?”

Cook grins and takes the glass container, “We’ll figure it out. This is only for the first year or something, right? And half of that he’ll still be drinking out of a bottle, Arch. What is this, bananas?”

“David,” Brooke says, and hands him what David’s going to assume is spinach. (Again with the not tasting it to make sure.)

“Thanks,” he mutters, staring at the stuff dubiously. Brooke laughs.

 

Brooke ended up winning the baby food game. David didn’t actually do that bad—well, he did better than Cook and Johns anyway. Jason got there right at the end of it, and apologized that his plane landed late, but he has brother with him and neither of them looks sad to have missed the baby food tasting point of the day. (David kind of wishes he’d been late too.)

They do some other things—at one point, they’re all throwing baby names around, but none of them are, whatever, David just doesn’t know what he’s going to do about a name. How can he pick someone else’s name? One they’ll have for their _entire life_. What if he picks one the baby will end up hating? And it’s not like he can name him after anyone, because then everyone else would feel left out, and. It’s just complicated.

Eventually, Carly pulls to big things of string out of her purse, and says, “Okay, measuring time!”

“What?” David says, already moving back, because— _really_?

Jazzy is laughing, and says, “David’s not going to like this game.” She’s already cutting a piece of string though, wrapping it around her own stomach twice, as if that’s going to be accurate at all.

David kind of, like, flails a little, and says, “Really, do we have to—Gosh, this isn’t—you guys!”

“It’s tradition!” Stacy says from across the room, as she finishes cutting her piece of string and hands the roll to Johns, who unrolls it so much David thinks it’ll wrap around him like, three times, maybe. He’s not _that_ big. Johns adds, “Sorry, mate.”

David crosses his arms and says, “Definitely not naming him Michael.”

Cook snorts next to him and grabs the string that Carly’s husbands just finished with, and pulls it out carefully before cutting it. “We ready?” he says, but David’s mom walks in from the kitchen with a glass of apple juice and says, “Wait, I haven’t done it yet!”

David tries one last, “Mom—“ but it doesn’t get him anywhere, and then Brooke is standing in front of him, pulling her string tight. It’s too small, and it’s kind of—it’s really embarrassing. David fidgets uncomfortably before Brooke grabs Johns and measures it—way too big. Jason’s is too big too, and Michael’s is too small, and Jazzy’s is too big, but closer to being the right size than Brooke’s was. Carly’s is almost perfect—an inch or two too big. She’s grinning when Brooke takes Cook’s, the last one, and pulls it around David’s waist.

Cook’s is perfect. He laughs from next to David, loud enough that it makes David jump. He breathes a long sigh and waits for Cook to stop before saying, “It’s not like—Cook, it’s because you’re always touching me!” The exactly measured blue string drops from his belly where Brooke was holding it as he turns. “I think that’s cheating? You had, like, foreknowledge.”

Cook just laughs again and shakes his head, saying, “No way, Archuleta,” right as Carly yells “Cheater!” and throws a diaper (clean, obviously, but _still_ ) at Cook’s head. She says, “I declare myself the winner since I was the closest other than Mr. Cheat here.”

David takes the opportunity—Carly and Cook play fighting or whatever—to sneak into the kitchen and get a glass of apple juice like his mom had earlier. He loves that everyone came and did this. He hasn’t seen Carly in ages, or Johns, and it’s great to see them again, he loves them, and the party itself is—he has more baby food and diapers than he thinks one kid will ever need, basically. But it’s all—it’s kind of overwhelming, and he needs a break, so he takes his time in the kitchen.

Instead of going back out to the living room, he sits down in a stool and drinks his juice in the quiet kitchen. He can still sort of hear everyone laughing and yelling in the other room, and the baby can too—he’s like, jumping or something, really excited. It’s kind of painful, but not really. Distracting though, definitely, and a little annoying, but, well, it isn’t like David can do anything about it.

He looks up when Brooke comes in the room and smiles because she’s smiling.

“Hey, David,” she says, looking to grab a plastic cup off the counter (courtesy of Johns, who’d also brought the alcoholic version of lemonade, but David had vetoed that at a baby shower and so it’s in the fridge waiting to go home with him again). “How are you doing? Tired? Want me to get Cook?”

David scrunches his nose up and shakes his head, still smiling but more just because it’s polite. “I’m fine, I’ll come back out when I finish my juice.”

“Alright,” she says, filling her cup up and sitting down on the other stool. “It’s been a while, hasn’t it?”

David nods, “Yeah. Everybody’s been so busy.”

Brooke smiles, and says, “Your album is great, David. I liked, hm, which one was it, the one with Jeff Finster’s name in it?”

“Who I Am?”

“Yes! I love that one. It’s—you’ve grown up a lot since the show,” Brooke muses.

David looks at his stomach. “Yeeeeep,” he says, and lets out a long breath. “Definitely growing.”

Brooke grins again though, even as David’s smile is kind of, iffy, at the moment. “Bet you and Cook were surprised when you found out, huh? It would have been so scary.”

“Cook’s not the Dad,” David says abruptly, suddenly realizing why she’s been all _Want me to go get Cook?_ and all-smiley and _Oh, David, did you want my seat?_ when she’d been sitting next to Cook earlier, and—and Carly was doing that too, earlier, and Johns had even—oh my Gosh.

Brooke blinks up at him, opening her mouth into an ‘o’ before closing it again. She says, “I didn’t—really? But you’re so—you’re not dating? I thought—“

“He’s just—“ David starts, and then stops. He hasn’t really thought about what Cook is doing—or why. At first it was just—a couple phone calls, like a friend, helping out. And then—he brought over gummy worms and helped with stuff in the house, and then they—they were talking all the time, and—Cook’s just what? What is Cook _doing_? “—helping.”

“I’m sorry,” Brooke says, awkwardly. “You two just seem really… like, a family?”

David just shakes his head, and says, “But we’re not.”

“Come on,” Brooke says, a moment later. “Your mom got you a present, and there’s another tradition we need to fulfill.”

“ _Another_ game?”

They walk back out and see Carly and Stacy laughing as the guys carry in a huge box. David’s eyes widen and he looks up at Cook when they drop it down in the middle of the living room and he claps his hands together, grinning. “Lupe,” Cook says, looking at David’s mom, sitting on the edge of the couch. “This is great.”

His mom smiles and says something, but David doesn’t hear. He’s concentrating on Cook, Cook whose smiling and walking over, and putting an arm out to touch David’s shoulder, completely—casual and intimate, like it belongs there, like he’s not even thinking about it, like it’s normal for him to just—just be touching David like—like they’re _together_ , like they’re dating or married or expecting parents, like—

 

Why’s he _doing_ this, it’s—it _hurts_.

“Alright, so it’s the guy’s job to put the thing together, right?” Cook says, still looking all—all _happy_ , like he’s _wanting_ to put together a crib and taste baby food and collect diapers and—like he wants to be a _Dad_ , like he wants to be _David’s baby’s Dad_ , and that would mean he’d want to be—to be _David’s_ —

David jerks away from Cook’s hand, and yells, “Stop it!” Everyone looks at him, and he says, “Stop with—everything, you’re not—you’re going to be a great uncle, okay, but you’re not—you’re not going to be the Dad, just stop. I can’t—I can’t handle you being all—just _stop_.”

David feels guilty as soon as he says it, and Cook looks like David slapped him, or—or told him he hated him, or—

“Sorry,” Cook says, finally, after an awful, tense silence from the room. “I just—I thought it would be okay, to—but if you don’t want me to, I’m just going to, uh.” He turns so that he’s not looking at David, is looking everywhere _but_ David. “I’m sorry, you’re right. I’m being really invasive. I’ll just—I’m going to, uh, check on Dubs.”

David squeezes his eyes shut as Cook walks past him, sliding through the backdoor, and Dublin’s loud bark makes it obvious that he’s happy he’s getting his owner’s attention. David hadn’t even known that Dublin was _here_.

“David,” Brooke says, quietly, tentatively, like he’s going to explode again.

“I shouldn’t have said that. You just—with all that stuff in the kitchen and—“ He shakes his head, “I need to apologize, I’ll be, um, I’ll be right back.”

When he goes through the backdoor, closing it again so that not everyone will be able to hear him talking to Cook this time (and he’s sure Brooke is explaining that they’re not actually dating—he hopes most of his crazy drama or whatever goes down in history as crazy pregnancy hormones), Cook is only actually a few feet away, leaning against the house and bent down. Dublin is yapping at his feet, aching for attention.

David kind of wishes he could be like that—a puppy, completely open with his emotions, no matter how crazy or weird, and not having to explain them at all, ever, and getting unconditional love back even when he’s really foolish and makes a mistake. Cook looks up at him, and the smile he sends David is—is small, and nervous, like he’s asking saying _I’m sorry_ again.

David walks over and when Cook stands back up, giving Dublin a last scratch in-between the ears, David wraps his arms around him and pushes him into a hug. Cook is half-frozen, his body not moving while his arms partially reach up as if to hold David back. “Arch?” he asks, after a minute, after Dublin’s whines get annoying and David pulls back to sort of—awkwardly, maybe his stomach _is_ that big—lean down and run a hand through his fur.

“I’m sorry,” David says, looking back up at Cook, and then stands back up fully because it’s kind of—it’s too hard to lean down like that, and his stomach is just always in the way it feels like. “I’m going crazy, and I overreacted. It’s just—Brooke—I’m scared.” He laughs, but it’s closer to crying than, whatever, laughing. “Cook, I’m having a baby.”

Cook moves his arm, like—like he’s going to touch David. “I know that, Archie. Believe me, I know that. I’m just trying to help. I guess I got a little too… into it. I’m sorry.”

“No—you didn’t—I love—“ David shakes his head again. “I love how into it you are. The texts and phone calls and presents and midnight snack runs—and helping to build crib—it’s—“ He looks up at Cook’s face, registering that Cook is staring right back at him. “It makes me feel kinda’ like—like I’m not alone, doing this. I’m just, confused and I still want—“ He takes a deep breath, “I don’t want you to stop what you’re doing, any of it. Just ignore me when I’m being crazy, okay?”

“Come here,” Cook says, kind of—he’s asking David, rather than telling him, but David moves forward and grabs onto him anyway, and after a minute, mumbles, “Will you come back in then?”

“Yeah. I’ll get the guys to help with the crib. Something your—friends can do to help, together, alright?”

David just nods, and forces himself to let go of Cook a minute later when they go inside.

 

The next day Cook sends him a text message, a picture of a Kansas City Chiefs jersey, red and cotton and very obviously meant for a baby. David just laughs when Cook sends another right after, _I totally just bought that, yes I did._ He sends a text back a minute later, _Doesn’t mean he has to wear it!_

 

David’s never cared too much about Valentine’s Day. It’s never been a holiday that had much effect on him, honestly. He’s never had a girlfriend, or a boyfriend, or even anyone he liked, like that, to give chocolate to, or whatever.

Cook texts him at around one on February fourteenth, some joke about people who are alone on Valentine’s day being sad and pathetic. David only takes comfort in the fact that Cook is _also_ not in a relationship with anyone—thank you God!—and thus both of them are sad and pathetic, rather than just David. David doesn’t answer it back though, testy and uncomfortable and just—he doesn’t want Cook to—it’s _Valentine’s Day_.

He ends up grabbing the container of vanilla ice cream out of the refrigerator and pouring a bunch of honey into it, and sitting down on his couch with a blanket pulled up to his waist, ignoring his phone. It’s pretty pathetic, he’ll admit, silently. There’s nothing even on television except for _Hannah Montana_ or re-runs of old _Star Trek_ episodes. He updates twitter when he gets bored enough and the ice cream is too melted to eat anymore. _Happy Valentine’s Day! Don’t eat too much chocolate!_

He and Cook don’t really talk on twitter very much. It’s too—public, sort of? And they can just text each other, so it seems kind of pointless most times. But he gets the alert a few minutes later, and opens it to read _@thedavidcook: What @thedavidarchie means by that is eat, eat, eat._

David laughs, and it’s probably—it’s probably silly, but he tweets back anyway, and the fans kind of like it when he talks to Cook anyway, like, it reminds them of _American Idol_ or something so— _Follow @thedavidcook’s advice only if you want a stomach ache in the morning! (Like he’s going to have.)_

Cook texts him after that, rather than tweets, and says, _How can I get a stomach ache? You didn’t give me any chocolate._

Archie shakes his head and texts back, _Sorry. Next year?_

Cook responds a few minutes later.

 _I’m holding you to it._

 

When it happens, he’s in the kitchen with his mom. The whole family is there, an idea Jazzy had—to come visit their nephew for Valentine’s Day. It’s actually two weeks after that though, because Daniel had had midterms and couldn’t come to L.A until they were over with. They’re all out in the living room, messing with the fireplace because the heater had been acting funny the last few days. At first it’s just—uncomfortable, an ache in his side. He rolls his shoulders, and turns off the oven—except barely a few minutes later it happens again, harder, sharper. He grips the counter and quietly says, “Mom—“

She doesn’t hear him the first time and when it stabs again a minute later, he yells, “Mom!”

When she runs into the kitchen, saying, “David—David, what’s wrong?” he’s already panicking.

“It’s—I think—“ he says, and he can barely breathe, all the sudden. “It’s time.”

“What?” his mom says. “It’s too early, Davey, are you—“

“ _Yes_ ,” David says, and oh, Gosh, is he hyperventilating? He’s gripping the counter so hard his fingers are white, and his legs are barely holding him up, and he says, “Please—please, I need, _Cook_ , Mama, call Cook, please, it’s—“

“Cook?” she says, right after yelling at Daniel and the girls, and Daniel is skidding to halt in the room, arms up like he’s ready to carry David to the car if he needs to. David would laugh, if that didn’t remind him of Cook so much. “Why—oh, Davey, is he—“

“Mom, _please_ ,” David says, and then they’re going to the car, and he totally doesn’t need to be all, carried out, but Daniel has an arm around his waist and Jazzy around his shoulders like he’s about to collapse or something.

His mom hands him his phone when they get in the car, and he’s breathing hard, scared and terrified, but he dials Cook anyway, because—because he needs him, right now, Cook _has to_ be there for this, he has to be.

It takes three rings for Cook to pick it up, and when he does, he answers by yawning out, “Arch—Archie? Man, what’s up? Little guy kicking again?”

“Cook,” David says, Gosh, he’s practically crying, “Cook, I’m going into, it’s time for—he’s coming, Cook, you have to—please—you have to _be here_ , I can’t—”

“ _What?_ ” Cook says, loud into the phone, and David can hear him curse and move and say, “Shit, fuck, I don’t—I’m in fucking New York, man, I don’t know if I can get there.“

David says, “ _Please_ , just—please, Cook, you— _please_ , I need—” and Cook says, “Don’t hang up.”

His mom ends up putting Cook on speakerphone for the whole ride to the hospital, and David starts breathing normally again sometime between _I’m headed to the airport, okay?_ and _It’s alright, this usually happens with first-time pregnancies, false alarms are quite ordinary—_

He puts his head in his arms and tries not to cry, he doesn’t even know _why_.

But Cook is coming, just like that, from New York.

David—David’s going to have to tell him.

 

* * *

Cook bangs into Kyle’s bed as he’s pulling on pants, the phone crammed between his ear and his shoulder, his head craned to keep the thing in place. He hears Kyle groan and shift behind him, background noise compared to Archie’s hysterical babble through the phone.

“Fuck, fuck, I’m sorry,” he says, not bothering to be quiet, unsure if he’s talking to Kyle, or to Archie. He holds the phone away so he can pull a shirt over his head, not bothering to check which one it was, if it was clean, or even if it was on the right way.

Kyle sits up, groggy and annoyed. “Dave? What are you doing?”

“Kyle, Kyle, call the fucking airport, call them _right now_ ,” he snaps, before putting the phone to his ear. “I’m leaving right now, I promise, I’ll be there, just – just try to hang on,” he says to Archie. He can hear Archie’s mother and siblings all talking, and he’s grateful, _so fucking grateful_ , that Archie wasn’t alone in his house for this.

“What’s going on? What’s wrong?” Kyle asks, flipping on a lamp and reaching for his phone, blindly following Cook’s instructions. “It’s the middle of the night man—”

“Archie’s in labor,” Cook says shortly, not thinking, and then has to pause as the words sink in. He barely hears Kyle say _”Shit, are you serious? Oh my god!”_ too busy thinking to himself _Archie’s in labor, Archie is having a baby, Archie’s baby is coming now_ and he panics a little. But then he can hear Archie say “Cook? _Cook?_ Are you—” and he pushes the panic aside, grabbing a pair of shoes and racing out the door, skipping the elevator in favor of taking the stairs down to the lobby of the hotel.

He’ll be there. He has to be there. Archie _needs_ him.

* * *

 

David finally texts Cook about an hour after they get to the hospital. The doctor has him in a little room anyway, and is smiling and talking and saying things that David doesn’t actually care about right now. He’s too busy trying not to freak out. The text is short, and to the point, _False alarm, sorry._

It’s not like Cook can stop the plane, so he’s still coming, David knows that, objectively, but he still doesn’t open the immediate responding text for a good five minutes, his hand just—not pushing the button.

 _Okay. I’m still coming._ is what it says when he finally opens it.

By the time Cook gets back in L.A., David and his family have gone back to the house, quiet and exhausted. He told his Mom and the girls to take his bed, but they refused, and sent him up. He would have said no—“Cook’s coming!”—but he’s too exhausted to argue, and he’ll just—this is going to be the worst moment of his life, he might as well be comfortable.

It figures he’d end up falling asleep; that the one time the baby doesn’t stay up kicking him, or sending him into the bathroom or kitchen every fifteen minutes, is when he needs to be awake. (And it’s so much harder to tell himself that he has to tell Cook the truth when he wakes up and Cook is asleep on the couch downstairs, arm hanging over the edge, hair and clothes all messed up like, like he’d gotten there in a hurry, as fast as he could possibly go.)

He wakes him up by touching his arm and saying, “Cook.”

“Mm.” Cook kind of like, rolls a little, and swats out an arm before opening his eyes. “Archie? Oh, man, should you be—sit down.” He scrambles up, moving to one side of the couch and grabbing David’s hand to pull him down too. He yawns, once, but looks alert, awake.

“It’s not like I’m on bed rest,” David says, but let’s himself be tugged down anyway.

“Close enough. Your mom let me in, told me all of it. You okay? I mean, that was terrifying for me and I was in New York,” Cook says. “By the way—I’m not leaving this city again until after this is over, alright? It’s too crazy to try and—“

“When it’s over?” David interrupts, looking at Cook’s face, tired and smiling anyway.

“You know, when he’s ‘left the wagon’,” Cook says, grinning.

“I know what you meant, but this is never going to be over,” David says. “This—it’s going to get harder, not easier. There’s going to be a _baby_ here, I’m going—it’s a baby. One that cries and eats and poops—real, and tiny, and with toes and fingers and feelings and wants and needs and—this isn’t going to end, Cook. Oh, Gosh, I’m crying again, aren’t I?”

David wipes at his eyes with his hands, while Cook reaches up and grabs one of his shoulders, moving his thumb back and forth tightly—trying to be comforting. “That’s okay. It was a hard day, Arch.”

“That’s not—that’s not what this is about.” David pulls away from Cook’s arm, watches as he pulls it back. “I need to tell you something.”

David breathes, one of those long, deep breathes that they teach you at the doctors’ office, and says, “I lied.”

It’s quiet for a minute. David is looking down at his hands, trying to keep them still where he’s holding them over his stomach, huge and in the way. The baby isn’t kicking, for once. Finally, Cook says, “What?”, sounding confused and uncertain.

David squeezes his eyes shut, and then turns a little and looks up at Cook—he looks confused too, brows furrowed and lips turned down. “Please don’t hate me,” David says, “You can be mad. You should be mad. I’d—I’d be angry. But I didn’t—I didn’t know what I was doing. I thought—I thought this was mine, my problem, my responsibility. But it’s not. It’s not. I’ve had—you’ve been here the whole time, Cook. And I was scared of that too, because I don’t know what you want, why you’re here all the time, and talking to me all the time and just—being amazing. I don’t know how you’re—going to react to—to this. I don’t want things to change, but, Cook, they won’t _stop_.” he says, ignoring the long wet tracks running down his face, just letting them be, because this is more important.

“Huh?” Cook sounds, moving on the couch, just—adjusting, looking at David. “Arch, you aren’t making any sense—”

David takes a shuddering breath, and keeps going. “I—I lied to you, when you asked me if it was yours. I lied, and I’m so sorry.”

“What?” Cook says, smiling in this—awkward sort of way. David watches the smile falter, and then “What? It’s—he’s _mine_?” And then comes the anger. Cook yanks himself back, against the edge of the couch, away from David. As far from him as he can get, and David can’t even blame him, no matter how much it hurts.

"You—I'm—David, I'm the father, I'm the **other** father, didn't you even think—I can't believe you were going to keep this a secret! Didn't you think about my feelings? About **my** rights as a **parent**? I've been going crazy and you—what, why would you—am I not—did you think I was going to be **mad**?" Cook—Cook is yelling, angry and, and _hurt_ , and David didn’t mean for—he can’t—

David shakes his head, and turns even more, so he can—he doesn’t—he has to _explain_ , he has to make Cook understand and—he can’t—he can’t hate him, he just, he _can’t_. “I don’t—I don’t know what I was thinking. I wasn’t thinking, I was freaking out! And at first—at first I thought if I just ignored it, it would go **away**. But it didn’t. It just—it just kept getting _bigger_ , and I didn’t want to tell you, because, well, it’s not like we were going to be a family. I thought it would be better if I did it by myself. It’s not—it’s not like we were aiming for this to happen. You didn’t want this anymore than I did!”

“That’s not the fucking point,” Cook says, and he takes a hand and runs it through his hair, and then asks, “Am I not good enough?”

“What?”

“Me, the guy sitting right in front of you—am I not **good** enough for you?”

“That’s not what I meant,” Archie says, staring at Cook with wide eyes. “How could you— _no_. Cook, you— No.”

Cook’s moved to hunch forward, his elbows on his knees, and he’s looking at the ground, like he’s trying to gather his bearings, but David can hear the anger and hurt when he says, “Fuck,” under his breath. “Christ, Archie,” he says, looking up and moving over, and all the sudden he’s pressing his forehead against David’s belly, and he’s—he’s crying. “Arch, this is my kid. This is my **son**. How could you not tell me?”

David stays as still as physically possible, terrified of moving and ruining this—delicate string he seems to be balancing on all the sudden. “I think—I didn’t want things to change, Cook. I liked what we had. It was like, a box, and everything was supposed to stay in the box. But now, it’s—I was scared you wouldn’t care.” His voice is rough, chipped, from how much he’s been crying lately. “At first I thought you wouldn’t—care. Or—or you’d be mad. And then, you were just, you were being Cook, my friend. Just my friend. I didn’t want to lose that.”

“Not telling me wasn’t a good way of ‘not losing that’. How do you even know, Arch? That I’m the Dad?”

“You’re the only one it could be,” David says, still unmoving. “I’ve never—“ He stops.

Cook shakes his head, and sits up, keeping a hand on David’s stomach for a minute before tightening it into a fist and bringing back to his own lap. “So this whole time, I’ve been jealous of myself? That’s awesome, just great.”

“Cook—“

“I’ve been in love with you since before I knew you were pregnant.”

David squeezes his eyes shut and then opens them slowly, and breathes carefully. “You’re what?” he finally asks.

“I’ve been going mad. I’ve been freaking out over—over who the fucking sorry son of a bitch who’d gotten you pregnant and just—just fucking left, was. And even though you were having _somebody else’s kid_ , I was still—I can’t stop thinking about you, I can’t—God, fucking—you have no idea how much I wanted to be the Dad. To have you. Both of you. You have no fucking idea.”

David, still not having moved, asks, “You’re in love with me?”

Cook just looks at him, angry and—something. Finally he says, “Arch.”

David kisses him. It’s probably stupid, but he can’t _help it_. That’s Cook, and he’s saying he’s in love with David—or was in love, something, anything, it’s more than friends, and more than friends-with-benefits, and more than a family forced together because of a baby, and he just—he kisses him.

Cook puts a hand on his shoulder and pushes him back after a moment, and then they’re both—they’re both all wide eyes and confusion. Cook gets up, and puts a hand in the air, like _stop, just, don’t talk, give me time to think_. David doesn’t stop him when he leaves the room, headed into the kitchen.

It’s five o’clock in the morning according to the clock on the wall. David sits on the couch and holds his arms down, over his stomach, over the baby, just—protecting him, from all the—everything, right now.

His mom eventually comes downstairs, dressed in her PJ’s, looking for David. She says, “David James Archuleta,” on the stairs, stopping to hold onto the railing, “if you don’t get your rear-end back in bed right now—“

“Mom, I’m just—“ David starts.

“You just came home from the hospital. I don’t care if you didn’t actually have the baby—you are not going to be awake and downstairs at five thirty in the morning while I am in this house. Bed, now.”

He’s totally planning on staying downstairs anyway—he’s waiting for Cook, right now, and he can’t—he can’t go to _bed_ after—after everything that just happened. He just can’t do that, he has to wait for Cook, for Cook to say something, tell him—tell him what they’re doing, now.

“Come on, Arch,” Cook says, from the kitchen doorway. “Your mom’s right. You thought you were having a baby earlier today. You shouldn’t be—you should be in bed.”

Cook walks with him to his bedroom, and waits until David gets into bed, and then says, “Look—I’m pissed. But I’m still in love with you, and I’ll do whatever you want me to do. If you want me to just be—an Uncle—no, I can’t do that. What I mean is—“

“I don’t want you to just be an Uncle, Cook.”

Cook doesn’t say anything for a minute, but after what seems like—like forever, just staring at each other, Cook moves, slow, so unbelievably slow, down, and puts a hand on the bed next to David, pushing his weight against the mattress in order to press his mouth against David’s. He pulls back.

“I love you,” David says, before Cook can say anything else—anything about—anything. “I think I’ve loved you for a really long time. I just—I didn’t think about it, because that’s not the sort of relationship we had, and I didn’t want to get hurt. You say I’m amazing, or honest, or nice, or whatever, like all the time, Cook, but I’m just—I’m really selfish.”

“Why’d you decide to tell me?” Cook asks, brokenly.

“Because… because this is yours, all of it, everything.”

Cook stands there for a long while, before finally walking to the other side of the bed and lying down. He puts a hand on David’s shoulder, but David doesn’t know if he pulled it away or kept it there, because he was suddenly more exhausted than he’d probably ever felt in his life, and he fell asleep.

 

He wakes up because of a combination of things. The baby is kicking, telling him he’s hungry, and would like breakfast, thank you very much. The light is coming in through the window, sliding right over David’s head, making him wince when he opens his eyes. And last, Cook has his arm wrapped around his stomach, hand splayed against it, like he’s trying to hold the baby.

David doesn’t move until the pressure of the baby gets to be too much on his bladder, and he’s forced to slide out from Cook’s arm and close the bedroom door carefully behind him as Cook keeps sleeping, rolling into the spot David had just vacated, and walk down the hall to relieve himself. He stares in the mirror for a long while, dried tear marks still on his cheeks.

It only takes a minute for him to decide to take a shower, even though he’s been paranoid ever since the doctor said hot water can hurt the baby and so only takes lukewarm baths and showers at the best of times. But he feels—he relishes in how the water beats against his face and shoulders, running down his back and chest and stomach. It’s cleansing, in what feels like more ways than one. He wishes he could go for a run, his feet itching to tackle the sidewalk.

He settles for breakfast when he gets out of the shower, and Cook has already gone downstairs.

“David,” his mom says, when he finally comes into the kitchen. “Scrambled, right? Your plate is on the table.”

He’s actually kind of been craving sunny side up, recently, but he _normally_ likes scrambled, so he just sits down and grabs his fork. His cravings are not the boss. They are _not_ to be listened—

“You like this kind better, don’t you?” Cook asks, and grabs David’s plate, switching it with his own, sunny side up and toast with jelly on it already. Cook grabs the bacon though, and takes a bite. (The doctor said no bacon, period. David didn’t know it mattered so much until after it was taken away. He doesn’t even like bacon all that much.)

“Thanks,” David says, only pouting a little at the bacon. He puts an arm out to grab the syrup, and sees Jazzy make a face at him that translates to _eeeeeeeeeeeeeeew, syrup on eggs, my brother has gone crazy!_ but whatever, it’s not his fault, it tastes amazing, okay. He pours it on, and resists making a face at Jazzy back.

Or at Cook, who’s staring at him.

And it’s really, really awful and awkward and embarrassing to eat in front of the guy you’re in love with when he’s just _staring at you_. Like, David is pretty sure his ears are red, or something, and he’s eating all slowly, because, well, why is Cook staring at him eat eggs anyway? Nobody looks good while they’re eating, except, like, maybe Cook, who always kind of seems like he’s having fun eating, and, but that’s not David, and he’d appreciate it if Cook would just. Turn around. Or something.

“Arch?” Cook says, eventually, and David regretfully looks up at him, “Hm?”

Cook kisses him.

Oh my gosh, Cook is _kissing him_. In front of _his mom_. What, what? What?

Cook pulls back, and says, “Sorry, you had, uh, syrup, on your, uh—“

“Oh,” David says. “I—um, thank you?”

Daniel snorts, and when Claudia pushes him, he says, “What? We’re all thinking the same thing. Fucking _finally_.”

“Daniel!” David’s mom yells, and David puts his head down on the table. Gosh.

“Hey,” Cook says, nudging David up. “Was that okay? I’m kind of—still confused, here.”

David shakes his head, “It’s okay. It’s definitely okay.”

 

“And you’re sure you’re going to be fine, mijo?” his mom asks one last time, as Amber waves and follows everyone else out to their car.

“Yes, mom, I’ll be okay. And Cook is here, so, it’ll be fine.”

She makes a _hm_ sound and then kisses David on the forehead. “I’ll call you when the plane lands, and if you’re doing anything but sitting and watching TV, I’m coming right back here, you understand?”

“ _Yes_ , mom, go, you’re going to be late for the plane!”

They close the door and David collapses on the couch. Cook chuckles and says, “Family is exhausting, man.”

David smiles at him, and Cook’s grin falls. “Alright, Arch—David. This is, this is serious, right?” he’s serious, the way his eyes are pointed and his mouth a fine line. He’s looking right at David. “This isn’t going in a fucking box, Archie.”

David closes his eyes and struggles for a minute to get up—big belly, always in the way—before leaning over to kiss Cook and say, “ _Yes_ ,” against his mouth. He backs up, “If—if that’s okay?”

Cook just looks at him until David flushes again, and then Cook runs a hand down David’s shoulder, down his arm and to his stomach. “Can I—“

David makes an uncomfortable sound, and says, “It’s not pretty.”

Cook slowly pushes his shirt up anyway, revealing the tightly expanded skin, dark and stretching compared to Cook’s paler hand now pressing against it. “Archie, you’re beautiful,” Cook says, suddenly, and looks up at David’s face. David bites his lip. Cook says, honest and open, “Arch—let’s do this. You and me—and him.”

David can’t really help it when he pushes Cook down and kisses him.

Cook kisses back, hot and surging, making David sigh and give in when Cook starts mouthing at his jaw line and down his throat slowly, pecking kisses the entire way. He squeals when Cook pushes up with his leg, brushing purposefully in-between David’s thighs and—

“We are not having sex,” David says, already feeling the way Cook’s hand is slipping at the waistband of his jeans.

“Then why did you push me down on the couch?” Cook asks, still smiling a little, splaying his hand against David’s back instead.

His fingers make David shiver with the touch, and he takes a deep breath. “I really want to. But no. ”

“Your emotions are so confusing,” Cook groans out, and adjusts underneath David right as David bursts out into laughter and rolls over a little, barely fitting on the couch Cook, neither of them falling off. He keeps laughing for a long time, and Cook is just smiling bemusedly at him when he finally stops and looks back up.

David bites his lip and pushes up with his elbows on the couch, and then presses down to say, “You, um, have no idea,” and then kisses Cook again, smiling into it when Cook does, and they both break off into laughter again after a moment, because kissing and smiling at the same time is—it’s kind of amazing.

 

It feels the same it did when Cook was in New York, David thinks. The short little bursts of hot pain in his lower abdomen. At first it was just one or two, and he was decidedly ignoring them because he didn’t want to go to the hospital fifteen times to be told _false alarm, stop worrying_ again and again. But they’re still there, now, and they _hurt_.

“Cook,” David says, whispering through the dark bedroom. Cook is curled next to him, an arm thrown over David’s chest kind of awkwardly—and yet comfortingly, how does that even work? “Cook!” he says again, and pushes at Cook’s shoulder.

“Mwah?” Cook says, cracking his eyes open. “Wha—wha’ you need?”

“I think we need to go to the hospital.”

 

David wakes up slowly. There's a blinking light next to him, hooked up to a machine, and he has to force his eyes open all the way in the semi-dark room. Hospital room, he thinks, hazily, and it's not actually dark, just—the curtains are drawn closed around him. He can hear people talking. "Six pounds, nine ounces," a voice says, and David thinks that sounds like—Beth? "He's such a little guy."

 _He's such a little guy._

David jerks fully awake, and says, "Cook—" before someone yells and there's movement and the curtains are pulled open.

He sees Cook, first, and lets out a long breath when the man comes over and grabs his hand, grinning. “And sleeping beauty awakes,” Cook says, happily. David smiles back kind of simply, and closes his eyes for a minute. He’s really—tired. He must still be out of it from the surgery, he thinks, and then jerks his eyes open again. “The—where is he?”

Cook’s smile gets bigger, and he says, “Mom!”

Beth comes closer, holding something small, and—and tiny, and—in a little, little blue blanket. She hands him carefully to Cook, who holds out his arms just as carefully, and David can hear a short—that was a whimper, a little cry, from, from _the baby_ , and—“Here, Arch, look. You did it, he’s beautiful.”

He’s—Cook’s bending down a little, and David sees a little wrinkled face, pink and—and squishy looking, somehow, with tufts of dark hair on his head. His eyes are closed, and he’s—he’s _beautiful_ , Cook is right, he’s—he’s beautiful.

“Can I—please—“ David says, holding up an arm, and Cook nods fast, moving to gently place the baby in David’s arms. David moves his elbow to support the baby’s head, and then, just—he’s so small, and warm, and—

“You are awful small, hm?” he says, quietly, talking to the baby, seemingly sleeping. He smiles. “You’re awful cute too.” He adds, when he feels Cook put a hand on his shoulder, rubbing it gently, “Kinda’ like your dad.”

Cook lets out a surprised laugh, and the baby squirms. “I don’t know,” Cook says. “I think he looks like you, Arch.”

David smiles, still looking at the baby. “You think?”

Cook leans down and puts a hand on David’s cheek, turning his face upward so that Cook can kiss him.

“Alright you two,” David’s mom says, suddenly, and David jerks away from Cook, holding the baby a little tighter.

“Mom?” David asks. He hadn’t even realized she was there. He looks around the room, and realizes that there are actually a lot of people other than Cook and the baby in the room, including David’s mom and siblings, and Stan and Andrew.

“Hey, Davey,” his mom says, coming up and brushing a hand through his hair, smiling. “What’s the baby’s name?”

“Oh,” David says, and looks at the baby, and then at Cook. “We never—Cook.”

“I don’t know,” Cook says back, looking at the baby. “Never ended up deciding on a name, did you, Archie?”

David looks at the baby for a few minutes, and lets a finger slip into the tiny little grip, really—strong, stronger than he’d expected. He’s just, it doesn’t matter, what the baby’s name is, he’s _theirs_ , his and Cook’s. “You pick,” David says, quietly. He looks up at Cook, “Please, Cook.”

Cook looks at them both for a minute, and eventually says, “Gavin? I know you were thinking about Quentin—“

“No,” David interrupts, and looks at the baby again. “I—I like Gavin.”

 

 **Epilogue**

David is holding Gavin cautiously when they go into the house for the first time since he’s been born. He’s still—he’s still tiny and small and fragile, and David can’t really—he just feels like he needs to be holding him _all the time_. Dublin barks from under his feet, and David says, “Cook!” quietly. Cook puts the car seat on the floor and dumps the diaper bag next to it, and then grins and grabs Dublin and lifts him up.

Dublin whines and stretches out from Cook’s arm, trying to sniff at the baby. David jerks back at first, but then, slowly, and carefully, brings Gavin close enough that Dublin can smell him, practically pushing his nose against his face. “Dubs, meet Gavin. Gavin, meet Dubs. You two are going to be best friends as soon as you’re allowed to get up to no good together,” Cook says quietly, grinning. He pulls Dublin back and the dog sneezes. David holds back a laugh and Cook shakes his head, putting the dog back on the floor.

“Put him in the crib?” Cook says, whispering. David nods back, and slowly makes his way up the stairs, into the little room next to his and Cook’s. Or, well, his—Cook doesn’t technically live with him, he’s not really sure how that’s going to work out. He settles Gavin down in the crib, thankful that the wrap the nurse had put him in is still in-tact, because he’s not sure he’d be able to repeat it. He turns on the baby monitor and slowly backs out of the room after pushing a short kiss to Gavin’s forehead.

When he gets back downstairs, Cook is sitting on the couch, all spread out, looking exhausted. He smiles lazily and David sits down next to him, groaning a little. The stitches from the C-Section still hurt, but he doesn’t mind when Cook tugs him in closer, under his arm. “I love you,” Cook says, eyes closed.

“Mm,” David agrees, half-asleep already.

Of course that’s when the baby monitor comes to life and a little cry filters out through it.

“And the pain begins,” Cook mutters, and David hits him in the arm as he gets up.


End file.
